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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE 

OF 

JTAMES  HOGC. 

COIfSISTIIfG   OE 

THE   QUEEN'S   WAKE,    THE   PH^GRIMS 

OF  THE   SUN,  MA  DOR  OF  THE 

MOOR,  &c. 

INCLFDING 


.<LL  HIS  CELEBRATED    NATIONAL,  PATHETICi 


HUMOROUS   AND    LOVE 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES-VOL.  H) 


J^EW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED   BY  D.  MALLORT* 
1825 


CONTENTS. 

PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN, 

Page 

DEDICATION, -  V 

Part  First 9 

Part  Second -  25 

Fart  Third 43 

Part  Fourth 67 

Superstition.        -       -  -        -        >  87 


MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR, 

Introduction-; 107 

Canto  I. 115 

Canto  II. -  137 

Canto  III. 163 

Canto  IV. 179 

Canto  V. .29a 

OONCLVSIOy, 213 


154604';' 


*rhe  Boffles 


CONTENTS, 

SONGS. 

Page. 

* ugac:, ^217 

Bonny  Jean 218 

Bonny  Leezy 220 

Kow  well  may  I         -----  221 

The  Sheep-shearing ib. 

How  Foolish  are  Mankind          -        -        -  223 

Sly  dear  little  Jeany  -----  224 

3Jocto]f  Monro     -     .  -        .        -        -        -  225 

Xove  is  like  a  Dizziness     -        -        -        -  227 

Auld  Ettrick  John 229 

Bonny  Beety 232 

Ayont  the  Mow  araang  the  Hay         -        -  234 

The  Drinkin',  O ;        -        -        -        -        -  235 

Clracie  Miller 237 

Birniebouzle        -        _        .        -                 -  238 

liife  is  a  Weary  Cobble  O'  Care          -        -  240 

Jack  and  his  Mother           .        -        -        -  ib. 

Athol  Cummers           ...        -        ^  242 

Willie  Wastle    ....--  243 

Auld  John  Borthick    ---••-  245 

Bauldy  Fraser    ---.-'  946 

Scotia's  Glens    ------  248 

The  Jubilee       -         -----  249 

The  anld  Highlandman       -        -        -        -  250 

Buccleuch's  Birth-Dav      -        -        -        -  252 

Highland  Harry  Back  Again      -        -        -  253 

Hap  an'  Rowe  the  Feetie  o't      -        -        -  254 

Born,  Laddie. 255 

Donald  Macdonald              -        -        -        -  256 

By  a  Bush              -           -        -        -        ~  259 

Prince  Owen  and  the  Seer          -        -        -  260 

i>Iy  Native  Isle         -            -        -        -        ^  261 

Honest  Duncan 262 

Highland  Laddie.        .        -                ^        ~  264 

The  Emigrant                   -        •  265 


TO  THE 

RIGHT  HON.  LORD  BYRON, 

Not  for  thy  crabbed  state-creed,  wayward  wight. 

Thy  noble  lineage,  mr  thy  virtues  high, 
(God  bless  the  mark !)  do  I  this  homage  plight ; 

No — 'tis  thy  bold  and  native  energy  ; 

Thy  soul  tliat  dares  each  bound  to  overfly, 
Ranging  through  nature  on  erratic  wing — 

These  do  I  honour — and  would  fondly  try 
With  thee  a  wild  aerial  strain  to  sing  ; 
Then,  Oh!  round  Shepherds  thy  charmed  nvi. 
tie  flinsr. 


THE 


PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN 


PART  FIRST 


THE 


PZLaRZIVIS  OF  TBS  SUN 


PART  FIRST. 


*>F  all  the  lasses  in  fair  Scotland, 
That  lightly  bound  o'er  muir  and  lea, 

There's  nane  like  the  maids  of  Yarrowdale 
Wi'  their  green  coats  kilted  to  the  knee. 

Oh  !  there  shines  mony  a  winsome  face, 
And  mony  a  bright  and  beaming  e'e  ; 

For  rosy  Health  blooms  on  the  cheek, 
And  the  blink  of  Love  plays  o'er  the  bree. 

But  ne'er  by  Yarrow's  sunny  braes, 
Nor  Ettrick's  green  and  wizard  shaw. 

Did  ever  maid  so  lovely  won 
As  Mary  Lee  of  Carelha.'* 

"*  Now  vulgarly  called  Carterhan^h. 
Vol.  II.— 1 


TH£  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU^ 

'       ,     ;nd  her  fair  and  lightly  form 
fhe  light  hill-breeze  was  blythe  to  blow. 
r  the  virgin  hue  her  bosom  wore 
Was  whitsr  than  the  drifted  snow, 

e  dogs  that  wont  to  growl  and  bark. 
Whene'er  a  stranger  they  could  see. 
'  ould  cower  and  creep  along  the  sward. 
And  lick  the  hand  cf  Mary  Lee. 

'n  foim  so  fair,  or  face  so  mild, 
The  rising  sun  did  never  gleam  • 
;i  such  a  pure  untainted  mind, 
The  dawn  of  truth  did  never  bearr^ 

e  never  had  felt  the  stounds  of  love, 
Nor  the  waefu"  qualms  that  breed  o'  sin 
'  ;t  ah  I  she  showed  an  absent  IooIk 
And  a  deep  and  thoughtfu'  heart  withii?. 

"^Le  looked  with  joy  on  a  young  man's  fact. 
The  downy  chin,  and  the  burning  eye. 

Without  desire,  without  ablush, 
She  loved  them,  but  she  knew  not  why, 

-!js  learned  to  read,  when  she  was  young. 

The  books  of  deep  divinity  ; 
And  she  thought  by  night,  and  she  read  by  day 

Of  the  life  that  is,  and  the  life  to  be. 

And  the  more  she  thought,  and  the  more  she  re: 
Of  the  ways  of  Heaven  and  Nature's  plan. 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SL.^ 
s  ■ 

She  feared  the  half  that  the  bedesmen  said 
Was  neither  true  nor  plain  to  man. 

Yet  she  was  meek,  and  bowed  to  Heaven 
Each  morn  beneath  the  shady  yew. 

Before  the  laverock  left  the  cloud, 
Or  the  sun  began  hi.s  draught  of  dew. 

And  when  the  gloaming's  gouden  veil 
Was  o"er  Blackandro's  summit  flun^. 

Among  tlie  bowers  of  green  Bow  hill 
Her  hymn  she  to  the  virgin  sung. 

And  aye  -he  thought,  and  aye  she  reaJ. 

Till  mystic  wildness  marked  her  air  ; 
For  the  doubts  that  on  her  bosom  preyed 

Where  more  than  maiden's  mind  could  bea^ 

And  she  grew  weary  of  this  world. 

And  yearned  and  pined  the  next  to  se^  : 
Till  Heaven  in  pity  earnest  sent, 

And  from  that  thraldom  set  her  free. 

One  eve  when  she  had  prayed  and  wep; 

Till  daylight  faded  on  the  wold — 
The  third  night  of  the  waning  moon  i 

Well  known  to  hind  and  niatron  old  '. 

Fur  then  the  fairies  boun'  to  ride, 

And  the  elves  ofEttrick's  greenwood  shaw  , 
And  aye  their  favourite  rendezvous 

Was  green  Bowhill  and  Carelha'= 


14 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE'euX. 


There  came  a  wight  to  Mary's  kijee, 
With  face  like  angel's,  mild  and  sweet ; 

His  robe  was  like  the  lily's  bloom, 
And  graceful  flowed  upon  his  feet. 

He  did  not  clasp  her  in  his  arms, 

Nor  showed  he  cumb'rous  courtesy  ; 

But  took  her  gently  by  the  hand, 
Saying,  ''  Maiden,  rise  and  go  with  me 

Cast  oft',  cast  off  these  earthly  weeds, 
They  ill  befit  thy  destiny  ; 
I  come  from  a  far  distant  land 
To  take  thee  where  thou  long'st  to  be.'" 

She  only  felt  a^shivering  throb, 
A  pang  defined  tlmt  may  not  be  ; 

And  up  she  rose,  a  naked  form, 
More  lightsome  pure,  and  fair  than  he 

He  held  a  robe  in  his  right  hand. 
Pure  as  the  white  rose  in  the  bloom  . 

That  robe  was  not  of  earthly  make, 
Nor  sewed  by  hand  nor  wove  in  loom 

When  she  had  doned  that  light  seymar, 
Upward  her  being  seemed  to  bound  ; 

Like  one  that.wades  in  waters  deep, 
And  scarce  can  keep  him  to  the  ground. 

Though  wrapt  and  transient  was  the  pause, 
She  scarce  could  keep  to  ground  the  while  ; 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN,  15 

She  felt  like  heaving  thistle  down, 
Hung  to  the  earth  by  viewless  pile. 

The  beauteous  stranger  turned  his  face 

Unto  the  earstern  streamers  sheen. 
He  seemed  to  eye  the  ruby  star 

That  rose  above  the  Eildon  green. 

He  spread  his  right  hand  to  the  heaven; 

And  he  bade  the  maid  not  look  behind; 
But  keep  her  face  to  the  dark  blue  even  .; 

And  away  they  bore  upon  the  wind. 

She  did  not  linger,  she  did  not  look^ 

For  in  a  moment  they  were  gone  ; 
But  she  thought  she  saw  her  very  form 

Stretched  on  the  greenwood's  lap  alone 

As  ever  you  saw  the  meteor  speed. 
Or  the  arrow  cleave  the  yielding  wind, 

Away  they  sprung,  and  the  breezes  sung, 
And  they  left  the  gloaming  star  behind. 

And  eastward,  eastward  still  they  bore 

Along  the  night's  gray  canopy; 
And  the  din  of  the  world  died  away, 

And  the  lanscape  faded  on  the  e'e.. 

They  had  marked  the  dark  blue  waters  lie 

Like  curved  lines  on  many  a  vale  ; 
And  they  hung  on  the  shelve  of  a  saffron  cloudy 

Tliat  scarcely  maved  ia  the  slumbering  gale. 


13  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SVS . 

They  turned  their  eyes  to  the  heaven  above, 
And  the  stars  blazed  bright  as  they  drew  nigh  ; 

And  they  looked  to  the  darksome  world  below, 
But  all  was  gray  obscurity. 

They  could  not  trace  the  hill  nor  dale, 
Nor  could  they  ken  where  the  greenwood  lay ; 

But  they  saw  a  thousand  shadowy  stars, 
In  many  a  winding  watery  way ; 

And  they  better  knew  where  the  rivers  ran 
Than  if  it  had  been  the  open  day, 

They  looked  to  the  western  shores  afar, 
But  the  light  of  day  they  could  not  see  ; 

And  the  halo  of  the  evening  star 
Sank  like  a  crescent  on  the  sea. 

Then  onward,  onward,  fast  they  bore 
On  the  yielding  winds  so  light  and  boon. 

To  meet  the  climes  that  bred  the  day, 
And  gave  the  glow  to  the  gilded  moon. 

Long  had  she  chambered  in  the  deep, 

To  'spite  the  maidens  of  the  main. 
But  now  frae  the  merman's  couch  she  sprung, 

And  blushed  upon  her  still  domain. 

When  first  from  out  the  sea  she  peeped, 
She  kythed  like  maiden's  gouden  kemb. 

And  the  sleepy  waves  washed  o'er  her  brow 
And  belled  her  cheek  wi'  the  briny  faeni) 


"HE  FIL0R2M?  OF  THE  SUN 

But  the  yellow  lei.ie  spread  up  tlie  lift, 
And  the  stars  grew  dim  before  her  e'e. 
•  ud  up  arose  the  Queen  of  Night 
In  all  her  solemn  majesty. 

>^ii  1  Mary's  heart  was  blythe  to  lie 
Above  the  ocean's  wastes  reclined. 

Beside  her  lovely  guide  so  high, 
On  the  downy  bosom  of  the  wind. 

-■Id  saw  the  shades  and  gleams  fio  bright 
Play  o'er  the^deep  incessantly, 

/ike  streamers  of  the  norland  way, 
The  lights  that  danced  on  the  quaking  s*^ 

^iie  saw  the  wraith  of  the  waning  moon- 
Trembling  and  pale  it  seemed  to  lie 
'    was  not  round  like  golden  shield, 
'   Nor  like  her  moulded  orb  on  hig'n 

Her  image  cradled  on  the  wave, 
Scarce  bore  similitude  the  while  ; 

It  was  a  line  of  silver  light, 
Stretched  on  the  deep  for  many  a  mi!e 

riie  lovely  youth  beheld  with  joy 
That  Mary  loved  such  scenes  to  view  , 

Mid  away,  and  away  they  journeyed  on. 
Faster  than  wild  bird  ever  flew. 

tJefore  the  tide,  before  the  wind, 

The  ship  ppeeds  swiftly  o'er  the  faem  ; 


THE  ?ILGRI3rS  OF  THE  ^U.T. 

\:.d  the  sailor  sees  the  shores  fly  back, 
And  weens  his  station  still  the  same. 

-nond  that  speed  ten  thousand  times, 
By  the  marled  streak  and  the  cloudlet  brown 

i  ast  our  aerial  travellers  on 
In  the  wan  light  of  the  waning  moon. 

I'iiey  keeped  aloof  as  they  passed  her  by, 
For  their  views  of  the  world  were  not  yet  doi; 

But  they  saw  her  mighty  mountain  form 
Like  Cheviot  in  the  setting  sun. 

\iid  the  stars  and  the  rnoon  fled  west  away 
.So  swift  o'er  the  vaulted  sky  they  shone  . 

J  he}'  seemed  like  fiery  rainbows  reared. 
In  a  moment  seen,  in  a  moment  gone 

Vei  Mary  Lee  as  easy  felt 

As  if  on  silken  couch  she  lay ; 
\nd  soon  on  a  rosy  film  they  hung, 

Above  the  beams  of  the  breaking  da}- 

And  they  saw  the  chambers  of  the  sun. 
And  the  angels  of  the  dawning  ray. 

Draw  the  red  curtains-  from  the  dome, 
The  glorious  dome  of  the  God  of  Day 

\:.d  the  youth  a  slight  obeisance  made 
And  seemed  to  bend  upon  his  knee 
;ie  holy  vow  he  whispering  said 
Sunk  deep  in  the  heart  of  3Iary  Lee 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   THE   ST.'!?. 

I  may  not  say  the  prayer  he  prayed 
Nor  of  its  wond'rous  tendency  ; 

But  it  proved  that  the  half  the  bedesmen  said 
Was  neither  true  nor  ever  could  be. 

rSweet  breaks  the  day  o'er  Harlaw  cairn, 
On  many  an  ancient  peel  and  barrow, 

On  braken  hill,  and  lonely  tarn, 
Along  the  greenwood  glen  of  Yarrow. 

Oft  there  had  Mary  viewed  v/ith  joy 
The  rosy  streaks  of  light  unfurled  ; 

Oh  !  think  how  glowed  the  virgin's  brea=: . 
Hung  o'er  the  profile  of  the  world. 

On  battlement  of  storied  cloud 
That  floated  o'er  the  dawn  serene, 

To  pace  along  with  angel  tread, 
And  on  the  rainbow's  arch  to  lean. 

Her  cheek  lay  on  its  rosy  rim, 

Her  bosom  pressed  the  yielding  blue, 

And  her  fair  robes  of  heavenly  make 
Were  sweetly  tinged  with  every  hue. 

And  there  they  lay,  and  there  beheld 
The  glories  of  the  opening  morn 

Spread  o'er  the  ea'stern  world  afar. 

Where  winter  wreath  was  never  borne. 

And  they  saw  the  blossom-loaded  trees, 

And  gardens  of  perennial  blow, 
Spread  their  fair  bosoms  to  the  day, 

In  dappled  pride,  and  endless  glow, 
1* 


20  THE  PILGRIMS  OF   THE  SUJfJ 

These  came  and  passed,  for  the  earth  rolled  on^ 
But  still  on  the  brows  of  the  air  they  hung  '. 

The  scenes  of  glory  they  now  beheld 
May  scarce  by  mortal  bard  be  sung. 

It  was  not  the  hues  of  the  marbled  sky, 
Nor  the  gorgeous  kingdoms  of  the  East, 

Nor  the  thousand  blooming  isles  that  lie 
Like  specks  on  the  mighty  ocean's  breast. 

It  was  the  dwelhng  of  that  God 
Who  op'd  the  welling  springs  of  time  ; 

Seraph  and  cherubim's  abode  ; 
The  Eternal's  throne  of  light  sublime. 

The  virgin  saw  her  radiant  guide 

On  nature  look  with  kindred  eye  ; 
But  whenever  he  turned  him  to  the  sun.. 

He  bowed  with  deep  solemnity  ! 

And  ah  !  she  deemed  him  heathen  born. 

Far  from  her  own  nativity, 
In  lands  beneath  the  southern  star, 

Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  sea. 

And  aye  she  watched  with  wistful  eye, 
But  durst  not  question  put  the  while  \ 

He  marked  her  mute  anxiety, 
And  o'er  his  features  beamed  the  smile. 

He  took  her  slender  hand  in  his, 
And  swift  as  fleets  the  stayless  mind. 

They  scaled  the  glowing  fields  of  day, 
And  left  the  elements  behiud. 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF   THE   SUX.  21 

"When  past  the  firmament  of  air, 
Where  no  attractive  influence  came  ; 

There  was  no  up,  there  was  no  down. 
But  all  was  space,  and  ail  the  same. 

The  first  green  world  that  they  passd  by, 

Had  'habitants  of  mortal  mould  ; 
For  they  saw  the  rich  men  and  the  poor, 

And  they  saw  the  young,  and  they  saw  the  old. 

But  the  next  green  world  the  twain  past  by 
They  seemed  of  some  superior  frame  ; 

For  all  were  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 
And  all  their  radiant  robe.s  the  same. 

And  Mary  saw  the  groves  and  trees, 
And  she  saw  the  blossoms  thereupon  ; 

But  she  saw  no  grave  in  all  the  land, 
Nor  church,  nor  yet  a  church-yard  stone. 

That  pleasant  land  is  lost  in  light, 

To  every  searching  mortal  eye  ; 
So  nigh  the  sun  its  orbit  sails. 

That  on  his  breast  it  seems  to  lie. 

And,  though  its  light  be  dazzling  bright, 
The  warmth  was  gentle,  mild,  and  bland, 

Such  as  on  summer  days  may  be. 
Far  up  the  hills  of  Scottish  land. 

And  Mary  Lee  longed  much  to  stay 

In  that  blest  land  of  love  and  truth, 
So  nigh  the  fount  of  life  and  day  ; 

That  land  of  beauty,  and  of  youth. 


-J  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   ^V^. 

"  Oh  maiden  of  the  wistful  mind, 
Here  it  behooves  not  to  remain  ; 

But  Mary,  yet  the  time  will  come 
When  thou  shalt  see  this  land  again.  • 

••  Thou  art  a  visitant  beloved 
Of  God,  and  every  holy  one  ; 

And  thou  shalt  travel  on  with  me, 
Around  the  spheres,  around  the  sun^ 

To  see  what  maid  hath  never  seen, 
And  do  what  maid  hath  nerer  done." 

Thus  spake  her  fair  and  comely  guide^ 
And  took  as  erst  her  lily  hand ; 

And  soon  in  holy  ecstacy, 

On  mountains  of  the  sun  they  stand. 

Here  I  must  leave  the  beauteous  twain,. 

Casting  their  raptured  eyes  abroad, 
Around  the  vallies  of  the  sun. 

And  all  the  universe  of  God. 

And  I  will  bear  my  hill-harp  hence. 
And  hang  it  on  its  ancient  tree  ; 
For  its  wild  warblings  ill  become 
The  scenes  that  op'd  to  Mary  Lee. 

Thou  holy  harp  of  Judah's  land, 
That  hung  the  willow  boughs  upon, 

Oh  leave  the  bowers  on  Jordan's  strand, 
And  cedar  groves  of  Lebanon  : 

That  I  may  sound  thy  sacred  string, 
Those  chords  of  mystery  sublime,        ♦ 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE   SUJf;  23 

That  cliimed  the  songs  of  Israel's  king, 
Songs  that  shall  triumph  over  tune. 

Pour  forth  the  trancing  notes  again, 

I'hat  wont  of  yore  the  soul  to  thrill. 
In  tabernacles  of  the  plain, 

Or  heights  of  Zion's  holy  hill. 

Oh  come,  ethereal  timbrel  meet, 
In  Shepherd's  hand  thou  dost  delight ; 

On  Kedar  hills  thy  strain  was  sweet, 
And  sweet  on  Bethle'm's  plain  by  night. 

And  when  thy  tones  tiie  land  shall  hear. 

And  every  heart  conjoins  with  thee, 
The  mountain  lyre  that  lingers  near 

Will  lend  a  wandering  melody. 


F.ND    OF    PART    FIR*?!, 


THE 

PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN 

PART  SECOND, 


THE 


pzLanzz^s  of  the  sun. 


PART  SECOND 


HARP  of  Jerusalem  !  how  shall  my  hand 
Awake  thy  Hallelujahs  I — How  begin 
The  song  that  tells  of  light  ineffable. 
And  of  the  dwellers  there  !    The  fountain  pure, 
And  source  of  all — where  bright  archangels  dwel 
And  where,  in  unapproached  pavilion,  framed 
Of  twelve  deep  vails,  and  every  vail  composed 
Of  thousand  thousand  lustres,  sits  enthroned 
The  God  of  Nature  ! — Oh  thou  harp  of  Salem, 
Where  shall  my  strain  begin  ! 

Soft  let  it  be, 
And  simple  as  its  own  primeval  airs  ; 
And,  Minstrel,  when  on  angel  wing  thou  soar'st 
Then  will  the  harp  of  David  rise  with  thee. 


28  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUX. 

In  that  fair  heaven  the  mortal  virgin  stood, 
Beside  her  lovely  guide,  Cela  his  name. 
Yes,  deem  it  heaven,  for  not  the  ample  sky, 
A  seen  from  earth,  could  slight  proportion  bear 
To  those  bright  regions  of  eternal  day, 
Once  they  are  gained. — So  sweet  the  breeze  of  life 
Breathed  thro'  the  groves  of  amarynth — So  sweet 
The  very  touch  of  that  celestial  land. 
Soon  as  the  virgin  trode  thereon,  she  felt 
Unspeakable  delight — Sensatio^^s  new 
Thrilled  her  whole  frame — As  one,  who  his  life  long 
Hath  in  a  dark  and  chilly  dungeon  pined. 
Feels  when  restored  to  freedom  and  the  sun. 

Upon  a  mount  they  stood  of  wreathy  light 
Which  cloud  had  never  rested  on,  nor  hue3 
Of  night  bad  ever  shaded — Thence  they  saw 
The  motion'd  universe,  that  wheeled  around 
In  fair  confusion — Raised  as  they  were  now 
To  the  high  fountain  head  of  light  and  vision, 
Where'er  they  cast  their  eyes  abroad,  they  found 
The  light  behind  the  object  still  before  ; 
And  on  the  rarefied  and  pristine  rays 
Of  vision  borne,  their  piercing  sight  passed  on 
Intense  and  all  unbounded — Onward  ! — onward  1 
No  cloud  to  intervene  !  no  haze  to  dim  I 
Or  nigh,  or  distant,  it  was  all  the  same  ; 
For  distance  lessened  not. — Oh  what  a  scene  ! 
To  see  so  many  goodly  worlds  upborne  ! 
Around  I — around  1 — all  turning  thtii-  green  bosoms 
And  glittering  waters  to  that  orb  oi  life 
On  which  our  travellers  stood,  and  all  by  that 
Sustained  and  gladdened  I  By  that  orb  sustained  ! 
No— by  the  might  everlasting  One 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU^'.  23 

Who  in  that  orb  resides,  and  round  whose  throne 
Our  journe vers  now  were  hovering.     But  they  kept 
Aloof  upon  the  skirts  of  heaven  ;  for,  strange 
Though  it  appears,  there  was  no  heaven  beside. 
They  saw  all  nature — All  that  was  they  saw  ; 
But  neither  moon,  nor  stars,  nor  firmament, 
Nor  clefted  gallaxy,  was  any  more  ; 
Worlds  beyond  worlds,  with  intermundanc  voids, 
That  closed  and  opened  as  those  worlds  rolled  on 
Were  all  that  claimed  existence  :  Each  of  these. 
From  one  particular  point  of  the  sun's  orb, 
Seemed  pendant  by  some  ray  or  viewless  cord, 
On  which  it  twirled  and   swung  with  endless  mo- 
tion. 

Oh  !  never  did  created  being  feel 
iSuch  rapt  astonishment,  as  did  this  maid 
Of  earthly  lineage,  when  she  saw  the  plan 
Of  God's  fair  universe  ! — Himself  enthroned 
In  light  she  dared  not  yet  approach  I — From  whence 
He  viewed  the  whole,  and  with  a  father's  care 
Upheld  and  cherished. — Wonder  seemed  it  none 
That  Godhead  should  discern  each  thing  minute 
That  moved  on  his  creation,  when  the  eyes 
Which  he  himself  had  made  could  thus  perceive 
All  these  broad  orbs  turn  their  omniferous  breasts 
And  sun  them  in  their  Maker's  influence. 
Oh  !  it  was  sweet  lo  see  their  ample  vaies, 
Their  yellow  mountains,  and  their  winding  streams 
All  basking  in  the  beams  of  light  and  life ! 

Each  one  of  all  these  worlds  seem'd  the  abode 
Of  intellectual  beings  ;  but  their  forms, 
Their  beauty,  and  their  natures,  varied  all. 
And  in  these  worlds  there  were  broad  oceans  rolled, 
And  branching  seas. — Some  wore  the  hues  of  gold. 


30  THE    PILGRIMS  OF  THE  &US. 

And  some  of  emerald  or  of  burnished  glass. 
And  there  were  seas  that  keel  had  never  plowed- 
Nor  had  the  shadow  of  a  veering  sail 
Scared  their  inhabitants  for  slumbering  shades 
And  spirits  brooded  on  them. 

"  Cela,  speak/" 
Said  the  delighted  but  inquiring  maid, 
"  And  tell  me  which  of  all  these  worlds  I  see 
Is  that  we  lately  left  ?  For  I  would  fain 
Note  how  far  more  extensive  'tis  and  fait 
Than  all  the  rest — little,  alas  !  I  know 
Of  it,  save  that  it  is  a  right  fair  globe. 
Diversified  and  huge,  and  that  afar, 
la  one  sweet  corner  of  it  lies  a  spot 
I  dearly  love — where  Tweed  from  distant  moors 
Far  travelled  flows  in  murmuring  majesty  ; 
And  Yarrow  rushing  from  her  bosky  banks , 
Hurries  with  headlong  haste  to  the  embrace 
Of  her  more  stately  sister  of  the  hills. 
Ah  !  yonder  'tis  ! — Now  I  perceive  it  well,'" 
Said  she  with  ardent  voice,  bending  her  eye 
And  stretching  forth  her  arm  to  a  broad  globe 
That  basked  in  the  light — ''  Yonder  it  is  ! 
I  know  the  Caledonian  mountains  well, 
And  mark  the  moony  braes  and  curved  heights 
Above  the  lone  St.  Mary. — Cela,  speak  ; 
Is  not  that  globe  the  world  where  I  was  born  , 
And  yon  the  land  of  my  nativity  V 
She  turned  around  her  beauteous  earnest  face, 
With  asking  glance,  but  soon  the  glance  withdraw 
And  silent  looked  abroad  on  glowing  worlds  ; 
For  she  beheld  a  smile  on  Cela's  face, 
A  snijle  that  might  aa  angel's  face  becouie,- 


TKE  PILGKIM5  OF  THE  SUN.  31 

%Vhen  listening  to  the  boasted,  pigmy  skill 
Of  high  presuming  man. — She  looked  abroad, 
But  nought  distinctly  marked — nor  durst  her  eye 
j  Again  meet  his,  although  that  way  her  face 
So  near  was  turned,  one  glance  might  have  read 
I         more, 

j  But  yet  that  glance  was  staid.    Pleased  to  behold 
[  Her  virgin  modesty,  and  simple  grace, 
I  His  hand  upon  her  flexile  shoulder  pressed, 
',  In  kind  and  friendly  guise,  he  thus  began  : 

"  My  lovely  ward,  think  not  I  deem  your  "quest 
Impertinent  or  trivial — well  aware 
Of  all  the  longings  of  humanity 
Toward  the  first,  haply  the  only  scenes 
Of  nature  e'er  beheld  or  understood  ; 
Where  the  immortal  and  unquenched  mind 
First  op'd  its  treasures  ;  and  the  longing  soul 
Breathed  its  first  yearnings  of  eternal  hope, 
1  know  it  all ;  nor  do  I  deem  it  strange, 
In  such  a  wilderness  of  moving  spheres, 
Thou  shouldst  mistake  the   world  that  gave  thee 

birth. 
Prepare  to  wonder,  and  prepare  to  grieve  : 
For  I  perceive  that  thou  hast  deemed  the  earth 
The  fairest,  and  the  most  material  part 
Of  God's  creation.     Mark  yon  cloudy  spot, 
Which  yet  thine  eye  hath  never  rested  on  ; 
And  tho'  not  long  the  viewless  golden  cord 
That  chains  it  to  this  heaven,  ycleped  the  sun. 
It  seems  a  thing  subordinate — a  sphere 
Unseemly  and  forbidding — 'Tis  the  earth. 
» What  think'st  thou  now  of  thy  Almighty  Maker,. 
And  of  this  goodly  universe  of  his  ?" 


J2  THK  J-ifftRjfMS  OF  THE  <  vK. 

Down  sunk  the  virgin's  eye — her  heart   seemed 
warped 
Deep,  deep  in  meditation — while  her  face. 
Denoted  mingled  sadness. — 'Twas  a  thought 
She  trembled  to  express.     At  length  with  blush^ 
And  faltering  tongue,  she  mildly  thus  replied  : 

"  I  see  all  these  fair  worlds  inhabited 
By  beings  of  intelligence  and  mind. 
Oh  1  Cela,  tell  me  this— Have  they  all  fallen. 
And  sinned  like  us  ?    And  has  a  living  God 
Bled  in  each  one  of  all  these  peopled  worlds  ? 
Or  only  on  yon  dank  and  dismal  spot 
Hath  one  Redeemer  suffered  for  them  all  ?" 

'•'Hold,  hold;— No  more !— Thou  talkest  thoo 
know'st  not  what/' 
Said  her  conductor  with  a  fervent  mien  ; 
"  More  thou  shalt  knov/  hereafter. — But  meanwhile 
This  truth  conceive,  that  God  must  ever  deal 
With  men  as  men — Those  things  by  him  decreed, 
Or  compass'd  by  permission,  ever  tend 
To  draw  his  creatures,  whom  he  loves,  to  goodness 
F(»r  he  is  all  benevolence,  and  knows 
That  in  the  path  of  virtue  and  of  love 
Alone,  can  final  happiness  be  found. 
More  thou  shalt  know  hereafter. — Pass  we  d 
Around  this  glorious  heaven,  till  by  degrees 
TJiy  frame  and  vision  are  so  subtilw;ed 
A-i  that  thou  may'st  tlie  inner  regions  neai 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  S<.>.  o-j 

Where  dwell  the  holy  augels — where  the  -aim- 
Of  God  meet  in  assembly — seraphs  sing. 
And  thousand  harps,  in  unison  complete, 
With  one  vibration  sound  Jehovah's  name." 

Far,  far  away,  thro'  regions  of  delight 
They  journeyed  on — not  like  the  earthly  pilgriu 
Fainting  with  hunger,  thirst,  and  burning  feet. 
But  leaning  forward  on  the  liquid  air. 
Like  twin-born  eagles,  skimmed  the  fields  of  light, 
Circling  the  pales  of  heaven.^  In  joyous  mood, 
Sometimes  thro'  groves  of  shady  depth  they  strayed. 
Arm  linked  in  arm.  as  lovers  walk  the  earth  ; 
Or  rested  in  the  bowers  where  roses  hung, 
And  flow'rets  holding  everlasting  sweetness. 
And  they  would  Hght  upon  celestial  hills 
Of  beauteous  softened  green,  and  converse  hold 
With  beings  Hke  themselves  in  form  and  mind  , 
Then,  rising  lightly  from  the  velvet  breast 
Of  the  green  mountain,  down  upon  the  vales 
They  swooped  amain  by  lawns  and  streams  of  life  : 
Then  over  mighty  hills  an  arch  they  threw 
Formed  like  the  rainbow. — Never  since  the  time 
That  God  outspread  the  glowing  fields  of  heaven 
Were  two  such  travellers  seen  1 — In  all  that  wa\ 
They  saw  new  visitants  hourly  arrive 
From  other  worlds,  in  that  auspicious  land 
To  live  forever. — These  had  sojourned  far  ^ 
From  world  to  world  more  pure — ^till  by  degree* 
After  a  thousand  years'  progression,  they 
Stepped  on  the  confines  of  that  land  of  life,. 
Of  bliss  unspeakable  for  evermore. 


■i  TIfE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUK. 

Yet,  after  such  probation  of  approacli, 
So  exquisite  the  feelings  of  delight 
Those  heavenly  regions  yelded,  "iwas  beyond 
Their  power  of  suflierance.— Overcome  with  blisS; 
They  saw  them  wandering  in  amazement  on, 
With  eyes  that  took  no  image  on  their  spheres, 
Misted  in  light  and  glory,  or  laid  down, 
>?tr6tched  on  the  sward  of  heaven  in  ecstacy. 

Yet  still  their  half-formed  words,  and  breathings 
were  [home 

Of  one  that  loved   them,  and  had  brought  them 
With  him  in  full  felicity  to  dwell. 

To  sing  of  all  the  scenes  our  travellers  saw 
An  angel's  harp  were  meet,  which  mortal  hand 
Must  not  assay. — These  scenes  must  be  concealed 
From  mortal  fancy,  and  from  mortal  eye, 
Until  our  weary  pilgrimage  is  done. 

They  kept  the  outer  heaven,  for  it  behooved 
rhem  so  to  do;  and  in  that  course  beheld 
immeasurable  vales,  all  colonized 
From  worlds  subjacent. — Passing  inward  still 
Toward  the  centre  of  the  heavens,  they  saw 
The  dwellings  of  the  saints  of  ancient  days 
And  martyrs  for  the  right — men  of  all  creeds, 
Features  and  hues  !     Much  did  the  virgin  muse 
And  much  reflect  on  this  strange  mystery, 
So  ill  conformed  to  all  she  had  been  taught 
From  infancy  to  think  by  holy  men  ; 
Till  looking  round  upon  the  spacious  globes 
Dependent  on  that  heavenly  light— and  all 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU.V.  3-> 

Rejoicing  in  their  God's  benelicence, 
These  words  spontaneously  burst  from  her  lips  i 
' '  Child  that  I  was — ah  !  could  my  stinted  mind 
Harbour  the  thought,  that  the  Almighty's  love. 
Life,  and  salvation,  could  to  single  sect 
Of  creatures  be  confined,  all  his  alike  I" 

Last  of  them  all,  in  ample  circle  spread 
Around  the  palaces  of  heaven,  they  past 
The  habitations  of  those  radiant  tribes 
That  never  in  the  walks  of  mortal  life 
Had  sojourned,  or  with  human  passions  toiled. 
Pure  were  they  framed ;  and   round  the   skirts  ot 

heaven 
At  first  were  placed,  till  other  dwellers  came 
From  other  spheres,  by  human  beings  nursed. 
Then  inward  those  withdrew,  more  meet  to  dwell 
In  beatific  regions.     These  again 
Followed  by  more,  in  order  regular, 
Neared  to  perfection.     It  was  most  apparent 
Thro'  all  created  nature,  that  each  being, 
From  the  archangel  to  the  meanest  soul, 
Cherished  by  savage,  caverned  in  the  snow, 
Or  panting  on  the  brown  and  sultry  desert, 
That  all  were  in  progression,  moving  on 
Still  to  perfection.     In  conformity 
The  human  soul  is  modelled— hoping  still 
On  something  onward  !     Something  far  beyond. 
It  fain  would  grasp  ! — Nor  shall  that  hope  be  lost  ! 
The  soul  shall  hold  it — she  shall  hope,  and  yearn, 
And  grasp,  and  gain,  for  times  and  ages,  more 
Than  thouffht  can  fathom,  or  proud  science  climb  I 

Vol.  IL— 2. 


36  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU.V 

At  length  they  reached  a  vale  of  wond'rous  ft.i  in 
And  dread  dhnensions,  where  the  tribes  of  heaven 
Assembly  held,  each  in  its  proper  sphere 
And  order  placed.    That  vale  extended  far 
Across  the  heavenly  regions,  and  its  form 
A  tall  gazoon,  or  level  pyramid; 
Along  its  borders  palaces  were  ranged, 
All  fronted  with  the  thrones  of  beauteous  seraphs, 
Who  sat  with  eyes  turned  to  the  inmost  point 
TiCaning  upon  their  harps  ;  and  all  those  thrones 
Were  framed  of  burning  crystal,  where  appeared 
In  mingled  gleam  millions  of  dazzling  hues  ! 

Still,  as  the  valley  narrowed  to  a  close, 
These  thrones  increased  in  grandeur  and  in  glory, 
On  either  side,  until  the  inmost  two 
Rose  so  sublimely  high,  that  every  arch. 
Was  ample  as  the  compass  of  that  bow 
That,  on  dark  cloud,  bridges  the  vales  of  earth. 

The  columns  seemed  ingrained  with   gold,   and 
branched 
With  many  lustres,  whose  each  single  lamp 
Shone  like  the  sun  as  from  the  earth  beheld  ; 
And  each  particular  column,  placed  upon 
A  northern  hill,  would  cap  the  polar  wain. 
There  sat  half  shrouded  in  incessant  light 
The  great  archangels,  nighest  to  throne 
Of  the  Almighty — for — O  dreadful  view  ! 
I'etwixt  these  two,  closing  the  lengthened  files. 
Stood  the  pavillion  of  the  eternal  God  ! 
Himself  unseen,  in  tenfold  splendours  veiled,.  - 
The  leai't  un.'^peakable,  so  passing  bright, 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN.  37 

That  even  the  eyes  of  angels  turned  thereon 
Grow   dim,  and  round  thera   transient   darkness 
swims. 

Within  the  verge  oi^that  extend&tl  region 
Our  travellers  stood.     Farther  they  could  not  presS; 
For  round  the  light  and  glory  threw  a  pale, 
Repellant,  but  to  them  invisible  ; 
Yet  myriads  were  within  of  purer  frame. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  messengers  arrived 
From  distant  worlds,  the  raissioners  of  heaven, 
Sent  forth  to  countervail  malignant  sprites 
That  roam  existence.     These  gave  their  report, 
Not  at  the  throne,  but  at  the  utmost  seats 
Of  these  long  files  of  throned  seraphiras. 
By  whom  the  word  was  passed.     Then  fast  away 
Flew  the  commissioned  spirits,  to  renew 
Their  watch  and  guardship  in  far  distant  lands, 
They  saw  them,  in  directions  opposite, 
To  every  point  of  heaven  glide  away 
Like  flying  stars  ;  or,  far  adown  the  steep, 
Gleam  like  small  lines  of  light. 

Now  was  the  word 
Given  out,  from  whence  they  knew   not,  that  all 

tongues, 
Kindreds,  and  tribes,  should  join,  with  one  accord; 
In  hymn  of  adoration  and  acclaim, 
To  Him  that  sat  upon  the  throne  of  heaven, 
Who  framed,  saved,  and  redeemed  them  to  himself! 


•5^  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN. 

Then  all  the  countless  hosts  obeisance  made . 
And,  whh  their  foces  turned  unto  the  throne. 
Stood  up  erect,  while  all  their  coronals 
From  off  their  heads  were  reverently  upborne. 
Our  earth-born  visitant  quaked  every  limb. 
The  angels  touched  their  harps  with  gentle  han« 
As  prelude  to  begin — then,  all  at  once, 
With  full  o'erwhelraing  swell  the  strain  arose  ; 
And  pealing  high  rolled  o'er  the  throned  lists 
And  tuneful  files,  as  if  the  sun  itself 
Welled  forth  the  high  and  holy  symphony  ! 
All  heaven  beside  was   mute — the  streams  stood 

still 
And  did  not  murmur — the  light  wandering  winds 
Withheld  their  motion  in  the  midst  of  heaven, 
Nor  stirred  the  leaf,  but  hung  in  breathless  trance 
Where  first  the  sounds  assailed  them  ! — Even  the 

windows 
Of  God's  pavillion  seemed  to  open  wide 
And  drink  the  harmony  ! 

Few  were  the  strains 
The  virgin  pilgrim  heard,  for  they  o'erpowered 
Her  every  sense,  and  down  she  sunk  entranced 
By  too  supreme  delight,  and  all  to  her 
Was  lost — She  saw  nor  heard  not  ! — It  was  gone  ! 

Long  did  she  lie  beside  a  cooling  spring 
In  her  associate's  arms,  before  she  showed 
Motion  or  life — and  when  she  first  awoke 
It  was  in  dreaming  melody — :ow  strains, 
Half  sung,  half  uttered  hung  upon  her  breath. 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN,  39 

'■  O  !  is  it  past  1"  said  she  ;  '•  Shall  I  not  hear 
That  song  of  heavea  again  ? — Then  all  beside 
Of  being  is  unworthy — Take  me  back, 
Where  I  may  hear  that  lay  oi  glory  flow, 
And  die  away  in  it — My  soul  shall  mix 
With  its  harmonious  numbers,  and  dissolve 
In  fading  cadence  at  the  gates  of  light." 

Back  near  the  borders  of  that  sacred  vale 
Cautious  they  journeyed  i  and  at  distance  heard 
The  closing  anthem  of  that  great  assembly 
Of  saints  and  angels. — First  the  harps  awoke 
A  murmuring,  tremulous  melody,  thst  rose 
Now  high — now  seemed  to  roll  in  waves  away. 
And  aye  between  this  choral  hymn  was  sung, 
*••'  Oh  !  holy  !  holy  !  holy  !  just  and  true, 
Art  thou,  Lord  God  Almighty  ;  thou  art  he 
Who  was  and  is  and  ever  more  shall  be  \" 
Then  every  harp,  and  every  voice,  at  once 
Resounded  Haltelujak!  so  sublime, 
That  all  the  mountains  of  the  northern  heaven. 
And  they  are  many,  sounded  back  the  strain. 

Oh  !  when  the  voices  and  the  lyres  were  strained 
To  the  rapt  height,  the  full  delerlous  swell, 
Then  did  the  pure  elastic  mounds  of  heaven 
Quiver  and  stream  with  flickering  radiance, 
Like  gossamers  along  the  morning  dew 
Still  paused  the  choir,  till  the  last  echo  crept 
Into  the  distant  hill — Oh  it  was  sweet ! 
Beyond  definement  sweet !  and  never  more 
May  ear  of  mortal  list  such  heavenly  strains,. 


40  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SVS. 

After  much  holy  converse  with  the  saints 
And  dwellers  of  the  heaven,  of  that  concerned 
The  ways  of  God  with  man,  and  wondrous  trutli- 
But  half  revealed  to  him,  our  sojourners 
In  holy  awe  withdrew.    And  now,  no  more 
By  circular  and  cautious  route  they  moved, 
But  straight  across  the  regions  of  the  blest, 
And  storied  vales  of  heaven,  did  they  advance, 
On  rapt  ecstatic  wing  ;  and  oft  assayed 
The  seraph's  holy  hymn.     As  they  past  by, 
The  angels  paused  ;  and  saints,  that  lay  reposed 
In  bowers  of  paradise,  upraised  their  heads 
To  list  the  passing  music  ;  for  it  went 
Swift  as  the  wild-bee's  note,  that  on  the  wing 
Bombs  like  unbodied  voice  along  the  gale. 

At  length  upon  the  brink  of  heaven  they  stood  , 
There  lingering,  forward  on  the  air  they  leaned 
With  hearts  elate,  to  take  one  parting  look 
Of  nature  from  its  source  ;  and  converse  hold 
Of  all  its  wonders.    Not  upon  the  sun. 
But  on  the  halo  of  bright  golden  air 
That  fringes  it  they  leaned,  and  talked  so  long, 
That  from  contiguous  worlds  they  were  beheld 
And  wondered  at  as  beams  of  living  light. 

There  all  the  motions  of  the  ambient  spheres 
Were  well  observed,  explained,  and  understood. 
All  save  the  mould  of  that  mysterious  chain 
Which  bound  them  to  the  sun — that  God  himself, 
And  he  alone  could  comprehend  or  wield. 

While  thus  they  stood  or  lay  (for  to  the  eyea 
Of  all,  their  poature  seemed  these  two  between, 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SL'.V.  41 

Bent  forward  on  the  wind,  in  graceful  guise, 
On  which  they  seemed  to  press,  for  their  fair  robes 
Were  streaming  far  behind  them)  there  passed  by 
A  most  erratic  wandering  globe,  that  seemed 
To  run  with  troubled  aimless  fury  on; 
The  virgin,  wondering,  inquired  the  cause 
And  nature  of  that  roaming  meteor  world. 


When  Cela  thus — "  I  can  remember  well 
When  yon  was  such  a  world  as  that  you  left ; 
A  nursery  of  intellect,  for  those 
Where  matter  lives  not. — Like  these  other  worlds. 
It  wheeled  upon  its  axle,  and  it  swung 
With  wide  and  rapid  motion.     But  the  time 
That  God  ordained  for  its  existence  run. 
Its  uses  in  that  beautiful  creation, 
Where  nought  subsists  in  vain,  remained  no  more  '■ 
The  saints  and  angels  knew  of  it,  and  came 
In  radiant  files,  with  awful  reverence, 
Unto  the  verge  of  heaven  where  we  now  stand, 
To  see  the  downfall  of  a  sentenced  world. 
Think  of  the  impetus  that  urges  on 
These  ponderous  spheres,  and  judge  of  the  event. 
Just  in  the  middle  of  its  swift  career, 
Th'  Almighty  snapt  the  golden  cord  in  twain 
That  hung  it  to  the  heaven — Creation  sobbed  I 
And  a  spontaneous  shriek  rang  on  the  hills 
Of  these  celestial  regions.     Down  amain 
Into  the  void  the  outcast  world  descended 
Wheeling  and  thundering  on  !     Its  troubled  seas 
Were  churned  into  a  spray,  and,  whizzing,  flurred 
Around  it  like  a  dew.— The  mountain  tops. 
And  ponderous  rocks,  were  off  impetuous  flung, 
4nd  clatttired  down  the  steeps  of  night  for  ever 


42  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN. 

''  Away  into  the  sunless,  starless  void 
Ruslied  the  abandoned  world  ;  and  thro'  its  cav* -• 
And  rifted  channels,  airs  of  chaos  sung. 
The  realms  of  night  were  troubled — for  the  stilness 
Which  there  from  all  eternity  had  reigned 
Was  rudely  discomposed  ;  and  moaning  sounds^ 
Mixed  with  a  whistling  howl,  were  heard  afar 
By  darkling  spirits  ! — Still  with  stayless  force, 
For  years  and  ages,  down  the  wastes  of  night 
Rolled  the  impetuous  mass  ! — of  all  its  seas 
And  superfices  disencumbered 
It  boomed  along,  till  by  the  gathering  speed. 
Its  furnaced  mines  and  hills  of  walled  sulphur 
Were  blown  into  a  flame — When,  meteor-like. 
Bursting  away  upon  an  arching  track, 
Wide  as  the  universe,  again  it  scaled 
The  dusky  regions. — Long  the  heavenly  hosts 
Had  deemed  the  globe  extinct — nor  thought  of  if, 
Save  as  an  instance  of  Almighty  power  ; 
Judge  of  their  wonder  and  astonishment. 
When  far  as  heavenly  eyes  can  see,  they  saw 
In  yon  blue  void,  that  hideous  world  appear ! 
Showering  thin  flame,  and  shining  vapour  forth 
0*er  half  the  breadth    of   heaven ! — The    angels 

paused  ! 
And  all  the  nations  trembled  at  the  view. 

"But  great  is  he  who  rules  ihem — He  can  turn 
And  lead  it  all  unhurtful  though  the  spheres, 
Signal  of  pestilence,  or  wasting  sword. 
That  ravage  and  deface  hnmanity. 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN.  43 

The   time  will  come,  -when,  in  likewise,  the 
earth 
iShali  be  cut  ofi"  from  God's  fair  universe  ; 
Its  end  fulfilled. — But  when  this  time  shall  be, 
From  man,  from  saint,  and  ange),  is  concealed.'"' 

Here  ceased  the  converse. — To  a  tale  like  this 
What    converse    could    succeed! — they    turned 

around, 
And  kneeling  on  the  brow  of  heaven,  there  paid 
Due  adoration  to  that  Holy  One 
Who  framed  and  ruled  the  elements  of  nature. 
Then,  like  two  swans  that  far  on  wing  had  scaled 
The  Alpine  heights  to  gain  their  native  lake, 
At  length,  perceiving  far  bolow  their  eye 
The  beatueous  silvery   speck — they  slack    their 

wings, 
And  softly  sink  adown  the  incumbent  air: 
So  sunk  our  lovely  pilgrims,  from  the  verge 
Of  the  fair  heaven,  down  the  streamered  sky, 
Far  other  scenes,  and  other  worlds  to  view. 


EI^D  OF  PART  SECOXB, 


•2* 


PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN 


yART  THIRD 


THE 


PXLGRXMS  OP  THE  SUIT, 


PART  THIRD. 


Imperial  England,  of  the  ocean  born, 
Who,  from  the  isles  beyond  the  dawn  of  morn, 
To  where  waste  oceans  wash  Peruvia's  shore, 
Hast  from  all  nations  drawn  thy  boasted  lore  ! 
Helm  of  the  world,  whom  seas  and  isles  obey, 
Tho'  high  thy  honours,  and  though  far  thy  sway, 
Thy  harp  I  crave,  unfearful  of  thy  frown  ; 
Well  may'st  thou  lend  what  erst  was  not  thine  own. 

Come,  thou  old  bass — I  loved  thy  lordly  swell, 
With  Dryden's  twang  and  Pope's  malicious  knell. 
But  now,  so  sore  thy  brazen  chords  are  worn, 
By  peer,  by  pastor,  and  by  bard  forlorn  ; 


48  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU>". 

By  every  grub  that  harps  for  venal  ore, 
And  crab  that  grovels  on  the  sandy  shore  ; 
I  wot  not  if  thy  maker's  aim  has  been 
A  harp,  a  fiddle,  or  a  tambourine. 

ComC;  leave  these  lanes  and  sinks  beside  the  sea; 
Come  to  the  silent  moorland  dale  with  me  ; 
And  thou  shalt  pour,  along  the  mountain  hoar, 
A  strain  its  echoes  never  waked  before  ; 
Thou  shalt  be  strung   where  green- wood    never 

grew, 
Swept  by  the  winds,  and  mellowed  by  the  dew. 

Sing  of  the  globes  our  travellers  viewed,  that  lie 
Around  the  sun,  enveloped  in  the  sky; 
Thy  music  slightly  must  the  vail  withdraw 
From  lands  they  visited,  and  scenes  they  saw  ; 
From  lands,  where  love  and  goodness  ever  dwell ; 
Where  famine,  blight,  or  mildew  never  fell ; 
Where  face  of  man  is  ne'er  o'erspread  with  gloom, 
And  woman  smiles  forever  in  her  bloom  : 
And  thou  must  sing  of  wicked  worlds  beneath, 
Where  flit  the  visions,  and  the  hues  of  death. 

The  first  they  saw,  tho"  different  far  the  scene. 
Compared  with  that  where  they  had  lately  been. 
To  all  its  dwellers  yielded  full  delight , 
Long  was  the  day,  and  long  and  still  the  night ; 
The  groves  were  dark  and  deep,  the  waters  still  ; 
The  raving  streamlets  murmured  from  the  hil)  • 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU.V.  40 

It  was  the  land  where  faithful  lovers  dwell,. 
1  Beyond  the  grave's  unseemly  sentinel  : 
Where,  free  of  jealousy,  their  mortal  bane. 
And  all  the  ills  of  sickness  and  of  pain, 
In  love's  delights  they  bask  without  alloy  ; 
The  night  their  transport,  and  the  day  their  joy 
The  broadened  sun,  in  chamber  and  alcove, 
Shines  daily  on  their  morning  couch  of  love  ; 
And  in  the  evening  grove,  while  linnnets  sing, 
And  sile^iit  bats  wheel  round  on  flittering  wing, 
Still  in  the  dear  embrace  their  souls  are  lingering. 

'•O  !  tell  me,  Cela,"'  said  the  earthly  maid. 
Must  all  these  beauteous  dames  like  woman  fade  ? 
In  our  imperfect  world  it  is  believed 
That  those  who  most  have  loved  the  most  have 

grieved ; 
That  love  can  ever  power  of  earth  control, 
Can  conquer  kings,  and  chain  the  hero's  soul  ; 
While  all  the  woes  and  pains  that  women  prove, 
Have  each  their  poignance  and  their  source  from 

love ; 
What  law  of  nature  has  reversed  the  doom, 
If  these  may  alvvaja  love,  and  always  bloom  V 

••  Look  round  thee,  maid  beloved,  and  thou  shalt 
see. 
As  journeying  o'er  this  happy  world  with  me, 
That  no  decrepitude  nor  age  is  here  ; 
No  autumn  comes  the  human  bloom  to  sear  ; 
For  these  have  lived  in  worlds  of  mortal  breath, 
Xnd  all  have  past  the  dreary  bourne  of  death 


1(0  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU>% 

Canst  thou  not  mark  their  purity  of  frame, 
Tho'  still  their  forms  and  features  are  the  same 

Replied  the  maid  :  "  No  difference  I  can  scan. 
Save  in  the  fair  meridian  port  of  man, 
And  woman  fresh  as  roses  newly  sprung  : 
If  these  have  died,  they  all  have  died  when  young." 

'*'  Thou  art  as  artless  as  thy  heart  is  good  ; 
This  in  thy  world  is  not  yet  understood ; 
But  whereso'er  we  wander  to  and  fro. 
In  heaven  above,  or  in  the  deep  below. 
What  thou  misconstruest  I  shall  well  explain, 
Be  it  in  angel's  walk,  or  mortal  reign, 
In  sun,  moon,  stars,  in  mountain,  or  in  main. 

'•'  Know,  then,  that  every  globe  which  thou  hast 
seen. 
Varied  with  vallies,  seas,  and  forests  green, 
Are  all  conformed,  in  subtility  of  clime, 
To  beings  sprung  from  out  the  womb  of  time  ; 
And  all  the  living  groupes,  where'er  they  be, 
In -worlds  which  thou  hast  seen,  or  thou  may'st  see, 
Wherever  sets  the  eve  and  dawns  the  morn, 
Are  all  of  mankind— all  of  woman  born. 
The  globes,  from  heaven,  which  most  at  distance 

lie. 
Are  nurseries  of  life  to  these  so  nigh; 
In  those  the  minds  for  evermore  to  be, 
Must  dawn  and  rise  with  smiling  infancy 


I  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN.  01 

•  Tims  'tis  ordained — these  grosser  regions  yield 
8ouls  thick  as  blossoms  of  the  vernal  field, 
Which,  after  death,  in  relative  degree, 
Fairer  or  darker,  as  their  minds  may  be, 
To  other  worlds  are  led,  to  learn  and  strive, 
Till  to  perfection  all  at  last  arrive. 
This  once  conceived,  the  ways  of  God  are  plain, 
But  thy  unyielding  race  in  errors  will  remain. 

''  These  beauteous   dames,  who  glow  with  love 
unstained, 
Like  thee  were  virgins,  but  not  so  remained. 
Not  to  thy  sex  this  sere  behest  is  given  ; 
They  are  the  garden  of  the  God  of  heaven  ; 
Of  beauties  numberless  and  woes  the  heir; 
The  tree  was  reared  immortal  fruit  to  bear  : 
And  she,  all  selfish  choosing  to  remain. 
Nor  share  of  love  the  pleasures  and  the  pain. 
Was  made  and  cherishedby  her  God  in  vain  ; 
She  sinks  into  the  dust  a  nameless  thing, 
No  son  the  requiem  o'er  her  grave  to  sing. 
While  she  who  gives  to  human  beings  birth, 
Immortal  here,  is  living  still  on  earth  ; 
Still  in  her  offspring  lives,  to  fade  and  bloom. 
Flourish  and  spread  thro'  ages  long  to  come. 

'*'  Now  mark  me,  maiden — why  that  wistful  look? 
Tho'  woman  must  those  pains  and  passions  brook, 
Beloved  of  God,  and  fairest  of  his  plan, 
Note  how  she  smiles,  superior  still  to  man  ; 
As  well  it  her  behooves  ;  for  was  not  he 
Lulled  on  her  breast,  and  nursed  upon  her  knee  1 
Her  foibles  and  her  failings  may  be  rife, 
While  toiling  thro'  the  snares  and  ills  of  life, 


52  THE  PILGRIMS  OFTHE  SVS. 

But  he  who  framed  her  nature,  knows  her  pains, 
Her  heart  dependant,  and  tuniuhuous  veins, 
And  many  fauhsthe  world  heap  on  her  head, 
Will  never  there  be  harshly  visited. 
Proud,  haughty  man,  the  nursling  of  her  care, 
Must  more  than  half  her  crimes  and  errors  bear ; 
If  flow'rets  droop  and  fade  before  their  day; 
If  others  sink  neglected  in  the  clay  ; 
•If  trees,  too  rankly  earthed,  too  rathly  blow. 
And  others  neither  fruit  nor  blossom  know, 
Let  human  reason  equal  judgment  frame, 
Is  it  the  flower,  the  tree  or  gard'ner's  blame  ? 

"  Thou  seest  them  lovely — so  they  will  remain 
For  when  the  soul  and  body  meet  again, 
No  'Vantage  will  be  held,  of  age,  or  time, 
United  at  their  fairest,  fullest  prime. 
The  form  when  purest,  and  the  soul  most  sage. 
Beauty  with  wisdom  shall  have  heritage. 
The  form  of  comely  youth,  th"  experience  of  age, 

''  When  to  thy  kindred  thou  shalt  this  relate. 
Of  man's  immortal  and  progressive  state, 
No  credit  thou  wilt  gain,  for  they  are  blind, 
And  would,  presumptuous,  the  Eternal  bind, 
Either  perpetual  blessings  to  bestow. 
Or  plunge  the  souls  he  framed  in  endless  wo. 

'•'  This  is  the  land  of  lovers,  known  afar, 
And  named  the  Evening  and  the  iMorningstar  . 
Oft,  with  rapt  eye,  thou  hast  its  rising  seen, 
Above  the  holy  spires  of  old  Lindeen  ; 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  5CK.  •> 

i 

knd  marked  its  tiny  beam  diffuse  a  hue 
ifhat  tinged  the  paleness  of  the  morning  blue  ; 
\h  !  didst  thou  deem  it  was  a  land  so  fair  ? 
3r  that  such  peaceful  'habitants  were  there  ? 

"  Seest  thou  yon  gloomy   sphere,,  thro'  vapour- 
dun, 
rhat  wades  in  crimson  like  the  sultry  sun  ? 
rhere  let  us  bend  our  course,  and  mark  the  fates 
Df  mighty  warriors,  and  of  warrior's  mates  ; 
For  there  they  toil,  mid  troubles  and  alarws, 
rhe  drums  and  trumpets  sounding  still  to  arm? 
rill  by  degrees,  when  ages  are  outgone, 
A.nd  happiness  and  comfort  still  unknown, 
Like  simple  babes  the  land  of  peace  to  win. 
rhe  task  of  knowledge  sorrowful  begin. 
By  the  enlightened  philosophic  mind, 
More  than  a  thousand  ages  left  behind. 

''  O  what  a  world  of  vanity  and  strife  I 
For  what  avails  the  stage  of  mortal  life  I 
[f  to  the  last  the  fading  frame  is  worn, 
rhe  same  unknowing  creature  it  was  born  I 
kVhere  shall  the  spirit  rest  ?  where  shall  it  go  ' 
Dr  how  enjoy  a  bliss  it  does  not  know  ? 
X  must  be  tauglit  in  darkness  and  in  pain, 
Dr  beg  the  bosom  of  a  child  again, 
knowledge  of  all,  avails  the  human  kind, 
^or  all  beyond  the  grave  are  joys  of  mind." 

So  swift  and  so  untroubled  was  their  flight 
Tsvas  like  the  journey  of  a  dream  by  night . 


04  THE  PILGRl-MS  OF  THE  SU5. 

xA.nd  scarce  had  Mary  ceased,  with  thought  =< 
To  muse  on  woman's  sacred  estimate, 
When  on  the  world  of  warriors  they  alight, 
Just  on  the  confines  of  its  day  and  night. 
The  purple  light  was  waning  west  away. 
And  shoally  darkness  gained  upon  the  day. 

"  I  love  that  twilight,"  said  the  pilgrim  fair, 
"  For  more  than  earthly  solemness  is  there. 
See  how  the  rubied  waters  winding  roll ; 
A  hoary  doubtful  hue  involves  the  pule  1 
Unceasing  murmurs  float  upon  the  wind, 
And  tenfold  darkness  rears  its  shades  behind 

"  And  lo  !  where  rapt  in  deep  vermilion  shroud 
The  daylight  slumbers  on  the  western  cloud  ! 
I  love  the  scene  ! — O  let  us  onward  steer ; 
The  light  our  steeds,  the  wind  our  charioteer  I 
And  OR  the  downy  cloud  impetuous  hurled, 
We'll  with  the  twilight  ring  this  warrior  world  ;"' 

Along,  along,  along  the  nether  sky  ! 
The  light  before,  the  wreathed  darkdess  nigh  ! 
Along,  along,  thro'  evening  vapours  blue, 
Thro"  tinted  air,  and  racks  of  drizzly  dew, 
The  twain  pursued  their  way,  and  heard  afar 
The  moans  and  murmurs  of  the  dying  war  ; 
The  neigh  of  battle-steeds  by  field  and  wall, 
That  missed  thoir  generous  comrades  of  the  stall, 
Which  all  undaunted  in  the  ranks  ofd-ath, 
Yielded,  they  knew  not  why,  their  honest  breath 
Ind  far  behind,  the  hill  wolfs  hunger  yell. 
And  watch-word  passed  from  drowsy  sentinel; 


THE  PlLGRliAIS  OF  THE  SO'.  oO 

Along:,  along,   through  mind's  unwearied  nxugc. 
t  flies  to  the  vicissitudes  of  change. 
)ur  pilgrinas  of  the  twilight  weary  grew, 
'ranscendent  was  the  scene,  hut  never  new  ; 
fhey  wheeled  their  rapid  chariot  from  the  liglil. 
ind  pierced  the  bosom  of  the  hideous  niglit. 

So  thick  the  darkness,  and  all  its  veil  so  swarth. 
Ill  hues  were  gone  of  heaven  and  of  the  earth  ! 
The  watch-fire  scarce  like  gild«,d  glow-worm  seem 

ed; 

"fo  moon  nor  star  along  the  concave  beamed  ; 
I  .Vithout  a  halo  flaming  meteors  flew  ; 
5carce  did  they  shed  a  sullen  sulphury  blue  ; 
-Vhizzing  they  past,  by  folded  vapours  crossed, 
ind  in  a  sea  of  darkness  soon  were  lost. 

Like  pilgrim  birds  that  o'er  the  ocean  {\y. 
kVhen  lasting  night  and  polar  storms  are  nigli. 
Enveloped  in  a  rayless  atmospl)ere, 
3y  northern  shores  uncertain  course  they  steer. 
3'er  thousand  darkling  billows  flap  the  wing, 
Fill  far  is  heard  the  welcome  murmuring 
-Df  mountain  waves,  o'er  waste  of  waters  tossed. 
In  fleecy  thunder  fall  on  Albyn's  coast. 

So  passed  the  pilgrims  through  impervioiis  nighr. 
Till  in  a  moment  rose  before  their  sight 
A.  bound  impassable  of  burning  levin  ! 
A  wall  of  flame,  that  reached  from  earth  to  heaven  ' 
It  was  the  light  shed  from  the  bloody  sun, 
In  bootless  blaze  upon  that  cloud  so  dun  ; 


t)b  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN. 

Its  gloom  was  such  as  not  to  be  oppressed, 
That  those  perturbed  spirits  might  have  rest 

Now  op'd  a  scene,  before  but  dimly  seen, 
A  world  of  pride,  of  havoc,  and  of  spleen  ; 
A  world  of  seethed  soil,  and  sultry  air  ; 
For  industry  and  culture  were  not  there  ; 
The  hamlets  smoked  in  ashes  on  the  plain, 
The  bones  of  men  were  bleaching  in  the  rain. 
And,  piled  in  thousands,  on  the  trenched  heath, 
Stood  warriors  bent  on  vengeance  and  on  death. 

'■'Ah!'-  said  the  youth,  "we  timely   come   1 
spy 
\  scene  momentous,  and  a  sequel  high  ! 
Tor  late  arrived  on  this  disquiet  coast, 
A  fiend,  that  in  Tartarean  gulf  was  tossed, 
And  held  in  tumult,  and  commotion  fell, 
The  gnashing  legions  through  the  bounds  of  hell 
For  ages  past — but  now  by  heaven's  decree, 
The  prelude  of  some  dread  event  to  be, 
ts  hither  sent  like  desolating  brand, 
The  scourge  of  God,  the  terror  of  the  land  I 
He  seems  the  passive  elements  to  guide. 
And  stars  in  courses  fight  upon  his  side. 

"  On  yen  high  mountain  will  we  rest  and  see 
The  omens  of  the  times  that  are  to  be  ; 
For  all  the  wars  of  earth  and  deeds  of  weir, 
Are  first  performed  by  warrior  spirits  here  : 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN".  G. 

^0  linked  are  souls  by  one  eternal  chain, 
What  these  perform  those  needs  must  do  again  ; 
And  thus  th'  Almighty  weighs   each   kingdom's 

date, 
Each  warrior's  fortune,  and  each  warrior's  fate. 
Making  the  future  time  with  that  has  been, 
Work  onward,  rolling  like  a  vast  machine." 

They  .sat  them  down  on  hills  of  Alpine  fonn^ 
Above  the  whirlwind  and  the  thunder  storm ; 
For  in  that  land  contiguous  to  the  sun. 
The  elements  in  wild  obstruction  run  ; 
They  saw  the  bodied  flame  the  cloud  impale. 
Then  river-like  fleet  down  the  sultry  dale. 
While,  basking  in  the  sunbeam,  high  they  lay. 
The  hill  was  swarthed  in  dark  unseemly  gray  ; 
The  downward  rainbow  hung  across  the  rain, 
And  leaned  its  glowing  arch  upon  the  plain. 

While  they  staid,  they  saw  in  wondrous  wisC; 
Armies  and  kings  from  out  the  cloud  arise  ; 
They  saw  great  hosts  and  empires  overrun. 
War's  wild  extreme,  and  kingdoms  lost  and  won  ; 
The  whole  of  that  this  age  has  lived  to  see, 
With  battles  of  the  east  long  hence  to  be, 
They  saw  distinct  and  plain  as  human  eye 
Discerns  the  forms  and  objects  passing  by. 
Long  yet  the  time  ere  wasting  war  shall  cease. 
And  all  the  world  have  liberty  and  peace  ! 

Tlie  pilgrims  moved  not—  word  they  had  not  said , 
\Vhile  this  mysterious  boding  vision  staid  ; 
But  now  the  virgin,  with  disturbed  eye, 
Besought  solution  of  the  prodigy. 


i>y  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN. 

"  These  all  are  future  kings  of  earthly  fame  ; 
That  wolfish  fiend,  from  hell  that  hither  camo. 
Over  thy  world,  in  ages  yet  to  be, 
Must  desolation  spread  and  slavery, 
Till  nations  learn  to  know  their  estimate  : 
To  be  unanimous  is  to  be  great ! 
When  right's  own  standard  calmly  is  unfurlM. 
The  people  are  the  sovereigns  of  the  world  ! 

"  Like  one  machine  a  nation's  governing, 
And  that  machine  must  liave  a  moving  spring, 
But  of  what  mould  that  moving  spring  should  be, 
'Tis  the  high  right  of  nations  to  decree. 
This    mankind   must    be  taught,  though  millions 

bleed, 
Thtt  knowledge,  truth,  and  liberty  may  spread." 

"What  meant  the  vision  'mid  the  darksome  cloud, 
Some  spirits  rose  as  from  unearthly  shroud. 
And  joined  their  warrior  brethren  of  t!ie  free  ; 
Two  souls  inspired  each,  and  some  had  three  I 

'•'  These  were  the  spirits  of  their  brethren  slain, 
Who,  thus  permitted,  rose  and  breathed  again  ; 
For  still  let  reason  this  high  truth  recall, 
The  body's  but  a  mould,  the  soul  is  all ; 
Those  triple  minds  that  all  before  them  hurled, 
Are  called  Silesians  in  this  warrior  world." 

''  O  tell  me,  Cela,  when  shall  be  the  time, 
That  all  the  restless  spirits  of  this  clime. 
Erring  so  widely  in  the  search  of  bliss. 
Shall  win  a  milder  happier  world  than  this  ^'" 


THE  PILGPa-M:=  OF  THE  SIV.  O^ 

-•  Not  till  they  leara,  with  humble  hearts,  to  see 
The  falsehood  of  their  fuming  vanity. 
What  is  the  soldier  but  an  abject  fool  1 
A  king's,  a  tyrant's,  or  a  statesman's  tool  I 
Some  patriot  few  there  are — but  ah  !  how  rare  ! 
For  vanity  or  interest  still  is  there  ; 
Or  blindfold  levity  directs  his  way  ; 
A  licensed  murderer  that  kills  for  pay  ! 
Though  fruitless  ages  thus  be  overpast, 
Truth,  love,  and  knowledge,  must  prevail  at  last !" 

The  pilgrims  left  that  climate  with  delight, 
Weary  of  battle  and  portentous  sight. 

It  boots  not  all  their  wanderings  to  relate, 
By  globes  immense,  and  worlds  subordinate  ; 
For  still  my  strain  in  mortal  guise  must  flow. 
Though  swift  as  winged  angels  they  might  go  , 
The  pallid  mind  would  meet  no  kind  relay. 
And  dazzled  fancy  "wilder  by  the  way. 

They  found  each  clime  with  mental  joys  replete, 
And  for  all  which  its  'habitants  were  meet. 
They  saw  a  watery  world  of  sea  and  shore, 
Where  the  rude  sailor  swept  the  flying  oar. 
And  drove  his  bark  like  lightning  o'er  the  main. 
Proud  of  his  prowess,  of  her  swiftness  vain  ; 
Held  revel  on  the  shore  with  stormy  glee_. 
Or  sung  his  boisterous  carol  on  the  sea. 

They  saw  the  land  where  bards  delighted  stray. 
And  beauteous  maids  that  love  the  melting  lay 
Vol.  II. -3. 


60  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU>. 

One  mighty  hill  they  clomb  with  earnest  pain, 

Forever  clomb,  but  higher  did  not  gain  ; 

Their  gladsome  smiles  were   mixed  with   frown? 

severe, 
For  all  were  bent  to  sing  and  none  to  hear. 


Far  in  the  gloom  they  found  a  world  accurst. 
Of  all  the  globes  the  dreariest  and  the  worst! 
But  there  they  could  not  sojourii,thoughthey  would, 
For  all  the  language  was  of  mystic  mood, 
A  jargon,  not  conceived  nor  understood  ; 
It  was  of  deeds,  respondents,  and  replies, 
Dark  quibbles,  forms,  and  condescendencies  ; 
And  they  would  argue,  with  vociferous  breath. 
For  months  and  days,  as  if  the  point  were  death. 
And  when  at  last  enforced  to  agree, 
'Twas  only  how  the  argument  should  be  I 


They  saw  the  land  of  bedesmen  discontent, 
Their  frames  their  god,  iheir  tithes  their  testament, 
And  snarling  critics  bent  with  aspect  sour, 
T'  applaud  the  great,  and  circumvent  the  poor  ; 
And  knowing  patriots  with  important  face, 
Raving  aloud  with  gesture  and  grimace, 
Their  prize  a  land's  acclaim,  or  proud  and  gainful 

place. 
Then  by  a  land  efteminate  they  passed, 
Where  silks  and  odours  floated  in  the  blast, 
A  land  of  vain  and  formal  compliment. 
Where  won  the  flippant  belles  and  beaux  magnifi- 
cent. 


XHK   I'lLUKIMS  OF   THE  SUN.  Gl 

They  circled  nature  on  their  airy  wain, 
{'rom  God's  own  throne  unto  the  realms  of  pain  ; 
For  there  are  prisons  in  the  deep  below, 
Where  wickedness  sustains  proportioned  wo. 
No  more  nor  less  ;  for  the  Almighty  still 
Suits  to  our  life  the  goodness  and  the  ill. 


O  !  it  would  melt  the  living  heart  with  wu, 
Were  I  to  sing  the  agonies  below  ; 
The  hatred  nursed  by  those  who  cannot  part ; 
The  hardened  brow,  the  seared  and  sullen  heart ; 
The  still  defenceless  look,  the  stifled  sigh, 
The  writhed  lip,  the  staid  despairing  eye. 
Which  ray  of  hope  may  never  lighten  more, 
Which  cannot  shun,  yet  dares  not  look  before. 
O  !  these  are  themes  reflection  would  forbear, 
Unfitting  bard  to  sing,  or  maid  to  hear  ; 
Yet  these  they  saw,  in  downward  realms  prevail. 
And  listened  many  a  sufierer's  hapless  tale. 
Who  all  allowed  that  rueful  misbelief 
Had  proved  the  source  of  their  eternal  grief; 
And  all  th'  Almighty  punisher  arraigned 
For  keeping  back  that  knowledge  they  disdained 


"  Ah  !"  Cela  said,  as  up  the  void  they  flew, 
"  The  axiom's  just — the  inference  is  true  ; 
Therefore  no  more  let  doubts  thy  mind  enthral. 
Thro'  nature's  range  thou  seest  a  God  in  all  : 
Where  is  the  mortal  law  that  can  restrain 
The  atheist's  heart,  that  broods  o'er  thoughts  pro 
fane, 


U2  THE  PiLGRl.MS  OF  THE  SUX. 

Soon  fades  the  soul's  and  virtue's  dearest  tie. 
When  all  the  future  closes  from  the  eye." 
By  all,  the  earth-born  virgin  plainly  savi^ 
Nature's  unstaid,  unalterable  law  ; 
That  human  life  is  but  the  infant  stage 
Of  a  progressive  endless  pilgrimage, 
To  wo,  or  state  of  bliss,  by  bard  unsung, 
At  that  eternal  fount  where  being  sprung. 


When  these  wild  wanderings   all  were  past  and 
done, 
Just  in  the  red  beam  of  the  parting  sun, 
Our  pilgrims  skimmed  along  the  light  of  even', 
Like  flitting  stars  that  cross  the  nightly  heaven, 
And  lighting  on  the  verge  of  Philip  plain. 
They  trude  the  surface  of  the  world  again. 


Arm  linked  in  arm,  they  walked  to  green  Bow- 
hill ; 
At  their  approach  the  woods  and  lawns  grew  still! 
The  little  birds  to  brake  and  bush  withdrew, 
The  merl  away  unto  Blackandro  flew  ; 
The  twilight  held  its  breath  in  deep  suspense, 
And  looked  its  wonder  in  mute  eloquence  ! 


They  reached  the  bower,  where  first  at  Mary' 
knee, 
Cela  arose  her  guide  through  heaven  to  be. 
All,  all  was  still — no  living  thing  was  seen! 
No  human  footstep  marked  the  dasied  green ! 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN.  i)3 

The  youth  looked  round,  as  something  were  un 

meet, 
Or  wanting  there  to  make  their  bliss  complete. 
They  paused — they  sighed — then  with  a  silent  awe, 
Walked  onward  to  the  halls  of  Carelha'. 


They  heard  the  squires  and  yeomen,  all  intent,, 
Talking  of  some  mysterious  event ! 
They  saw  the  maidens  in  dejection  mourn. 
Scarce  daring  glance  unto  a  yeoman  turn  1 
Straight  to  the  inner  chamber  they  repair, 
Mary  beheld  her  widowed  mother  there, 
Flew  to  her  arms,  to  kiss  her  and  rejoice  ; 
Alas  !  she  saw  her  not,  nor  heard  her  voice  ! 
But  sat  unmoved  with  many  a  bitter  sigh, 
Tears  on  her  cheek,  and  sorrow  in  her  eye  I 
In  sable  weeds,  her  lady  form  was  clad, 
And  the  white  lawn  waved  mournful  round  hei 

head. 
Mary  beheld,  arranged  in  order  near, 
The  very  robes  she  last  on  earth  did  wear. 
And  sinking  from  the  disregarded  kiss  ; 
'•'  Oh,  tell  me  Cela  ! — tell  me  what  is  this  1" 


"  Fair  maiden  of  the  pure  and  guileless  heart, 
As  yet  thou  knowest  not  how,  nor  what  thou  art ; 
Come,  I  will  lead  thee  to  yon  hoary  pile, 
Where  sleep  thy  kindred  in  their  storied  isle  : 


i4  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUxX. 

There  I  must  leave  thee,  in  this  world  below  ; 
'Tis  meet  thy  land  these  holy  truths  should  kno\ 
But  Mary,  yield  not  thou  to  bootless  pain, 
Soon  we  shall  meet,  and  never  part  again." 


He  took  her  hand,  she  dared  not  disobey, 
But,  half  reluctant,  followed  him  away. 
They  paced  long  on  Ettrick's  margin  green, 
And  reached  the  hoary  fane  of  old  Lindecn  ; 
It  was  a  scene  to  curdle  maiden's  blood  ; 
The  massy  church-yard  gate  wide  open  stood  ! 
The  stars  were  up  ! — the  valley  steeped  in  dew  : 
The  baneful  bat  in  silent  circles  flew  ! 
No  sound  was  heard  except  the  lonely  rail 
Harping  his  ordinal  adown  the  dale ; 
And  soft  and  slow,  upon  the  breezes  light. 
The  rush  of  Ettrick  breathed  along  the  night! 
Dark  was  the  pile,  and  green  the  tombs  beneath 
And  dark  the  gravestones  on  the  sward  of  death 


Within  the  railed  space  appeared  to  view 
A  grave  new  opened — thitherward  they  drew 
And  there  beheld,  within  its  mouldy  womb  ! 
A  living,  moving  tenant  of  the  tomb  ! 
It  was  an  aged  monk,  uncocth  to  see. 
Who  held  a  sheeted  corse  upon  his  knee, 
And  busy,  busy  with  the  form  was  he  ! 
At  their  approach  he  uttered  howl  of  pain, 
Till  echoes  groaned  it  from  the  holy  fane. 
Then  fled  amain— Ah  !  Cela  too,  is  gone ! 
And  Mary  stands  within  the  grave  alone  ! 


i  HE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU.V.  6 

With  lier  fair  guide,  her  robes  of  heaven  are  fled, 
And  round  her  fall  the  garments  of  the  dead  ! 

Here  I  must  seize  my  ancient  harp  again, 
And  chant  a  simple  tale^  a  most  uncourtly  strain. 


F.ND  OF  PART  THIRP. 


THE 


PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN. 


PART  FOURTH. 


PZLGRZlMtS  or  THE  SUK 


PART  FOURTH 

# 
-I  HE  night-wind  is  sleeping — the  forest  is  still, 
The  blair  of  the  heath-cock  has  sunk  in  the  hill. 
Beyond  the  gray  cairn  of  the  moor  is  his  rest, 
On  the  red  heather   bloom  he  has   pillowed  i:  - 

breast  ; 
There   soon  with  his  note  the  gray   dawning  hell 

cheer, 
Sut  Mary  of  Carel'  that  note  will  not  hear  ! 

The  night-wind   is  still,  and  the  moon   ia  the 
wane, 
The  river-lark  sings  on  the  verge  of  the  plain  : 
So  lonely  his  plaint,  by  the  motionless  reed. 
It  sounds  like  an  omen  or  tale  of  the  dead  ; 
Like  a  warning  of  death,  it  falls  on  thfe  ear 
Of  those  who  are  wandering  the  woodlands  in  fea- 


;  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  .SUN'. 

For  the  maidens  of  Carelha'  wander,  and  cry 
On  their  young  lady's  name,,  with  the  tear  in  the' 

eye. 
The  gates  had  been  shut,  and  the  mass  had  bee. 

sung, 
But  Mary  was  missing,  the  beauteous  and  young 
And  she  had  been  seen  in  the  evening  still, 
By  woodman,  alone,  in  the  groves  of  Bowhill. 

O  were  not  these  maidens  in  terror  and  pain  ! 

They  knew  the  third  night  of  the  moon   in   the 

wane! 

They  knew  on  that  night  that  the  spirits  were  free 

That  revels  of  faires  were  held  on  the  lea  ; 

And  heard  their  small  bugles  with  eirysome croon. 

As  lightly  they  rode  on  the  beam  of  the  moon  ! 

O  !  wo  to  the  wight  that  abides  their  array  ! 

And  wo  to  the  maiden  that  comes  in  their  way  ' 

# 
The  maidens  returned  all  hopeless  and  wan  ; 

The  yeomen  they  rode,  a:id  the  pages  they  ran  , 

The  Ettrick  and  Yarrow  they  searched   up  and 

down  ; 

The  hamlet,  the  cot,  and  the  old  borough  town 

And  thrice  the  bedesman  renewed  the  host, 

But  the  dawn  returned  and  Mary  was  lost ! 

Her  lady  mother  distracted  and  wild, 
For  the  loss  of  her  loved,  her  only  child, 
With  all  her  maidens  tracked  the  dew- 
Well  Mary's  secret  bower  she  knew  ! 
Oft  had  she  traced,  with  fond  regard. 
Her  darhng  to  that  grove,  and  heard 
Her  orisons ^he  green  bough  under, 
\nd  turned  aside  with  fear  and  wonder 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN.  71 

O  I  but  their  hearts  were  turned  to  stone, 
When  they  saw  her  stretched  on  the  sward  alone  , 
Prostrate,  without  a  word  or  motion, 
As  if  in  calm  and  deep  devotion  ^- 
They  called  her  name  with  trembling  breath  ; 
But  ah  !  her  sleep  was  the  sleep  of  death  ! 
They  laid  their  hands  on  her  cheek  composed  ; 
But  her  cheek  was  cold  and  her  eye  was  closed. 
They  laid  their  hands  upon  her  breast, 
But  the  playful  heart  had  sunk  to  rest  ; 
And  they  raised  an  eldrich  wail  of  sorrow, 
That  startled  the  hinds  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

And  yet,  when  they  viewed  her  comely  face, 
Each  line  remained  of  beauty  and  grace  ; 
No  death-like  features  it  disclosed, 
For  the  lips  were  met,  and  the  eyes  were  closed. 
'Twas  pale — but  the  smile  was  on  the  cheek  ; 
'Twas  modelled  all  as  in  act  to  speak  ! 
It  seemed  as  if  each  breeze  that  blew, 
The  play  of  the  bosom  would  renew  ; 
As  nature's  momentary  strife 
Would  wake  that  form  to  beauty  and  life. 

It  is  borne  away  with  fear  and  awe 
To  the  lordly  halls  of  Carelha', 
And  lies  on  silken  couch  at  rest — 
The  mother  there  is  constant  guest, 
For  hope  still  lingers  in  her  breast. 

O  I  seraph  Hope  !  that  here  below 
Can  nothing  dear  to  the  last  forego  ! 
When  we  see  the  forms  we  fain  would  save 
Wear  <^tep  by  step  adown  to  the  grave. 


?2  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU.N. 

Still  hope  a  lambent  gleam  will  shed,, 

Over  the  last,  the  dying  bed. 

And  even  as  now,  when  the  soul's  away. 

It  flutters  and  lingers  o'er  the  clay  ! 

O  Hope  !  thy  range  was  never  expounded ! 

'Tis  not  by  the  grave  that  thou  art  bounded  ! 

The  leech's  art,  and  the  bedesman's  prayer, 

Are  all  mispent — no  life  is  there  ! 

Between  her  breasts  they  dropped  the  lead, 

And  the  chord  in  vain  begirt  her  head  ; 

Yet  still  on  that  couch  her  body  lies, 

Though  another  moon  has  claimed  the  skies. 

For  once  the  lykewake  maidens  saw, 

As  the  dawn  arose  in  Carelha', 

A  movement  soft  the  sheets  within. 

And  a  gentle  shivering  of  the  chin  ! 

All  earthly  hope  at  last  outworn, 
The  body  to  the  tomb  was  borne  ; 
The  last  pale  flowers  in  tlie  grave  were  flung 
The  mass  was  said,  and  the  requiem  sung  ; 
And  the  turf  that  was  ever  green  to  be, 
Lies  over  the  dust  of  Mary  Lee. 

Deep  fell  the  eve  on  old  Lindeen  ! 
Loud  creaked  the  rail  in  the  clover  green  ! 
The  new  moon  from  the  west  withdrew. — 
O  !  well  the  monk  of  Lindeen  knew, 
That  Mary's  winding  sheet  was  lined, 
With  many  fringe  of  the  gold  refined  : 
That  in  her  bier  behooved  to  be 
A  golden  cross  and  a  rosary  ; 
Of  pearl  beads  full  many  a  string, 
And  on  every  finger  a  diamond  ring. 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN.  73 

The  holy  man  no  scruples  staid  ; 
For  within  that  grave  was  useless  laid 
Riches  that  would  a  saint  entince  ; 
Twas  worth  a  convent's  benefice  '. 


He  took  the  spade,  and  away  he  is  gone 
To  the  church-yard,  darkling  and  alone  ; 
His  brawny  limbs  the  grave  bestride, 
And  he  shovelled  the  mools  and  the  bones  aside  , 
Of  the  dust  nor  the  dead,  he  stood  not  in  fear, 
But  he  stooped  in  the  grave  and  he  opened  the 

bier  ; 
And  he  took  the  jewels  of  value  high, 
And  he  took  the  cross  and  the  rosary. 
And  the  golden  heart  on  the  lid  that  shone, 
And  he  laid  them  carf.fully  on  a  stone. 

Then  down  in  the  depth  of  the  grave  sat  he, 
And  he  raised  the  corpse  upon  his  knee  ; 
But  in  vain  to  gain  the  rmgs  he  strove, 
For  the  hands  were  rold,  and  they  would  not  move 
He  drew  a  knife  from  his  baldric  gray, 
To  cut  the  rings  and  fingers  away. 

He  gave  one  cut — he  gave  but  one — 
ft  scarcely  reached  unto  the  bone  : 
Just  then  the  soul,  so  long  exiled, 
Returned  again  from  it's  wanderings  wild  ; 
By  the  stars  and  the  sun  it  ceased  to  roam, 
And  entered  its  own,  its  earthly  home. 
Loud  shrieked  the  corse  at  the  wound  he  gave,. 
And  rising  stood  up  in  the  grave. 


74  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN. 

The  hoary  thief  was  chilled  at  heart. 
Scarce  had  he  power  left  to  depart ; 
For  horror  thrill'd  through  every  vein : 
He  did  not  cry,  but  he  roared  amain ; 
For  hues  of  dread  and  death  were  rife 
On  the  face  of  the  form  he  had  woke  to  life 
His  reason  fled  from  off  her  throne, 
And  never  more  dawned  thereupon. 

Aloud  she  called  her  Cela's  name, 
And  the  echoes  called,  but  no  Cela  came. 
O,  much  she  marvelled  that  he  had  gone. 
And  left  her  thus  in  the  grave  alone. 
She  knew  the  place,  and  the  holy  dome, 
Few  moments  hence  she  had  thither  come  ; 
And  through  the  hues  of  the  night  she  saw 
The  woods  and  towers  of  Carelha'. 
'Twas  mystery  all — She  did  not  ween 
Of  the  state  or  the  guise  in  which  she  had  be^ 
STie  did  not  ween  that  while  travelling  afar, 
Away  by  the  sun  and  the  morning  star, 
By  the  moon,  and  the  cloud,  and  aerjel  bow, 
That  her  body  was  left  on  the  earth  below. 

But  now  she  stood  in  grievous  plight — 
The  ground  was  chilled  with  the  dews  of  the  niglit. 
Her  frame  was  cold  and  ill  at  rest. 
The  dead-rose  waved  upon  her  breast ; 
Her  feet  were  coiled  in  the  sheet  so  wan, 
And  fast  from  her  hand  the  red  blood  ran. 

'Twas  late,  late  on  a  sabbath  night, 
At  the  hour  of  the  ghost,  and  the  restless  sprite  : 
The  mass  at  Carelha'  had  been  read, 
And  all  the  mourners  were  bouHd  to  bed.. 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUX. 

When  a  foot  was  heard  on  the  paved  floor, 
And  the  gentle  rap  came  to  the  door. 

O  God  !  that  such  a  rap  should  be 
So  fraught  with  ambiguity  ! 
A  dim  haze  clouded  every  sight  ; 
Each  hair  had  life  and  stood  upright ; 
No  sound  was  heard  throughout  the  hall,. 
But  the  beat  of  the  heart  and  the  cricket's  call  . 
So  deep  the  silence  imposed  by  fear, 
That  a  vacant  buzz  sung  in  the  ear. 

The  lady  of  Carelha'  first  broke 
The  breathless  hush,  and  thus  she  spoke: 
"  Christ  be  our  shield  I — who  walks  so  late. 
And  knocks  so  gently  at  my  gate  ? 
I  felt  a  pang — it  was  not  dread — 
It  was  the  memory  of  the  dead. 
O,  death  is  a  dull  and  dreamless  sleep  ! 
The  mould  is  heavy,  the  grave  is  deep  '. 
Else  T  had  weened  that  foot  so  free 
The  step  and  the  foot  of  my  Mary  Lee> 

And  I  had  weened  that  gentle  knell 
From  the  light  hand  of  my  daughter  fell  I 
The  grave  is  deep,  it  may  not  be  ! 
Haste,  porter,  haste  to  the  door  and  see.'*" 

He  took  the  key  with  an  eye  of  doubt, 
He  lifted  the  lamp  and  he  looked  about  ; 
His  lips  a  silent  prayer  addressed, 
And  the  cross  was  signed  upon  his  breast  , 
Thus  mailed  within,  the  armour  of  God,, 
All  ghostly  to  the  door  he  strode. 


'  0  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN. 

He  wrenched  the  bolt  with  grating  din, 

He  lifted  the  latch — but  none  came  in  ! 

He  thrust  out  his  lamp,  and  he  thrust  out  his 

And  he  saw  the  face  and  the  robes  of  the  dead  : 

One  sob  he  heaved,  and  tried  to  fly, 

But  he  sunk  on  the  earth,  and  the  form  came  by. 

She  entered  the  hall,  she  stood  in  the  door. 
Till  one  by  one  dropt  on  the  floor. 
The  blooming  maiden,  and  matron  old, 
The  friar  gray,  and  the  ^-eoman  bold. 
It  was  like  a  scene  on  the  Border  green. 
When  the  arrows  fly  and  pierce  unseen. 
And  nought  was  heard  within  the  hall, 
Butaves,  vows,  and  groans  withal. 
The  lady  of  Carel'  stood  alone. 
But  moveless  as  a  statue  of  stone. 

"  O !  lady  mother,  thy  fears  forego  : 
Why  all  this  terror  and  this  wo  ? 
But  late  when  I  was  in  this  place, 
Thou  wouldst  not  look  me  in  the  face  ; 

0  !  why  do  you  blench  at  sight  of  me  ? 

1  am  thy  own  child,  thy  Mary  Lee." 

"  I  saw  thee  dead  and  cold  as  clay  ; 
I  watched  thy  corpse  for  many  a  day  ; 
I  saw  thee  laid  in  the  grave  at  rest ; 
I  strewed  the  flowers  upon  thy  breast ; 
And  I  saw  the  mould  heaped  over  thee— 
Thou  art  not  my  child,  my  Mary  Lee." 

O'er  Mary's  face  amazement  spread  ; 
She  knew  not  that  she  had  been  dead  ; 


THE  PIL&RIMS  OF  THE  SUK. 

ihe  gazed  in  mood  irresolute  : 

Soth  stood  aghast,  and  both  were  mute. 

"  Speak  thou  lov'd  form — 7mj  glass  is  run, 
[  nothing  dread  beneath  the  sun, 
iVhy  curn'stthou  in  thy  winding-sheet, 
rby  life-blood  streaming  to  thy  feet  ? 
rhe  grave-rose  that  ray  own  hands  made, 
'.  see  upon  thy  bosom  spread  ; 
rhe  'kerchief  that  my  own  hands  bound. 
[  see  still  tied  thy  temples  round  ; 
rhe  golden  rings  and  bracelet  bands, 
^re  still  upon  thy  bloody  hands. 
From  earthly  hope  all  desperate  driven, 
[  nothing  fear  beneath  high  heaven  ; 
Grive  me  thy  hand  and  speak  to  me, 
Ff  thou  art  indeed  my  Mary  Lee," 


That  mould  is  sensible  and  warm, 
[t  leans  upon  a  parent's  arm. 
The  kiss  is  sweet,  and  the  tears  are  sheen, 
A.nd  kind  are  the  words  that  pass  between 
They  cling  as  never  more  to  sunder, 
O !  that  embrace  was  fraught  with  wonder 


Yeoman,  and  maid,  nnd  menial  poor, 
Upraised  their  heads  from  the  marble  floor  ; 
With  lengthened  arm,  and  forward  stride, 
They  tried  if  that  form  their  touch  would  bide 
They  felt  her  warm  ! — they  heard  1 — they  saw 
And  marvel  reisrns  in  Carelha' ! 


/8  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SU5. 

The  twain  into  their  chamber  repair  , 
The  wounded  hand  is  bound  with  care  ; 
And  there  the  mother  heard  with  dread 
The  whole  that  I  to  you  have  said, 
Of  all  the  worlds  where  she  had  been. 
And  of  all  the  glories  she  had  seen. 
I  pledge  no  word  that  all  is  true, 
The  virgin's  tale  I  have  told  to  you  ; 
But  well  'tis  vouched,  by  age  and  worth; 
•Tis  real  that  relates  to  earth. 


'Twas  trowed  by  every  Border  swain, 
The  vision  would  full  credence  gain. 
Certes  'twas  once  by  all  believed, 
Till  one  great  point  was  misconceived  ; 
For  the  mass-men  said,  with  fret  and  frown.. 
That  through  all  space  it  well  was  known. 
By  moon  or  stars,  the  earth  or  sea, 
An  up  and  down  there  needs  must  be  ; 
This  error  caught  their  minds  in  thrall ; 
"Twas  dangerous  and  apocryphal ! 
And  this  nice  fraud  unhinged  all. 
So  grievous  is  the  dire  mischance 
Of  priestcraft  and  of  ignorance  ! 


Belike  thou  now  canst  well  foresee, 
What  after  hap'd  to  ^lar}'  Lee — 
Then  thou  may'st  close  rny  legend  here, 
But  ah  !  the  tale  to  some  is  dear  ! 
For  though  her  name  no  more  remains. 
Her  blood  yet  runs  in  minstrel  veins. 


THE  piLGFaais  or  the  sun. 

In  Mary's  youth,  no  vigin's  face 
Wore  such  a  sweet  and  moving  grace  ; 
Nor  ever  did  maiden's  form  more  fair 
Lean  forward  to  the  mountain  air  ; 
But  now,  since  from  the  grave  returned. 
So  dazzling  bright  her  beauty  burned, 
The  eye  of  man  could  scarcely  brook 
With  steady  gaze  thereon  to  look  ; 
Such  was  the  glow  of  her  cheek  and  eyes. 
She  bloomed  like  the  rose  of  Paradise  ! 

Though  blytherthan  she  erst  had  been. 
In  serious  mood  she  oft  was  seen. 
When  rose  the  sun  o'er  mountain  gray, 
Her  vow  was  breathed  to  the  east  away  ; 
And  when  low  in  the  west  he  burned, 
Still  there  her  duteous  eye  was  turned. 
For  she  saw  that  the  flow'rets  of  the  glad. 
To  him  unconscious  worship  paid  ; 
She  saw  them  ope  their  breasts  by  day. 
And  follow  his  enlivening  ray, 
Then  fold  them  up  in  grief  by  night, 
Till  the  return  of  the  blessed  ligiit. 

When  daylight  in  the  west  fell  low 
She  heard  the  woodland  music  flow^ 
Like  farewell  song,  with  sadness  blent. 
A  soft  and  sorrowful  lament  ; 
But  when  the  sun  rose  from  the  sea, 
O  !  then  the  birds  from  every  tree 
Poured  fourth  their  hymn  of  holiest  glee  ! 
She  knew  that  the  wandering  spirits  of  wratl.. 
Fled  from  his  eye  to  tjbeir  homes  beneath, 


80  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    SUN. 

But  when  the  God  of  glory  shone 

On  earth,  from  his  resplendent  throne. 

In  valley,  mountain,  or  in  grove, 

Then  all  was  life,  and  light,  and  love. 

She  saw  the  new-born  infant's  eye, 

Turn  to  that  light  incessantly  ; 

Nor  ever  was  that  eye  withdrawn 

Till  the  mind  thus  carved  began  to  dawn 

All  Nature  worshipped  at  one  shrine, 

Nor  knew  that  the  impulse  was  divine. 


The  chiefs  of  the  forest  the  strife  begin. 
Intent  this  lovely  dame  to  win  ; 
But  the  living  lustre  of  her  eye 
iiaulk'd  every  knight's  pretensions  high  ; 
Abashed  they  sunk  before  her  glance. 
Nor  farther  could  their  claims  advance  ; 
Though  love  thrilled  every  heart  with  pair 
They  did  not  ask,  and  they  could  not  gain 


Tliere  came  a  harper  out  of  the  ea.st  . 
A  courteous  and  a  welcome  guest 
In  every  lord  and  baron's  tower  ; 
He  struck  his  harp  of  wondrous  power  ; 
So  high  his  art  that  all  who  heard 
Seemed  by  some  magic  spell  ensnared  : 
For  every  heart,  as  he  desired. 
Was  thrilled  with  wo — with  ardour  fired  ; 
Roused  to  high  deeds  his  might  above. 
Or  soothed  to  kindness  and  to  love. 
No  one  could  learn  from  whence  he  came. 
But  HuETO  of  Norrowav  hieht  his  name. 


THE  PILGRIMS  0¥  Tlli.   tl.N 

One  day,  when  every  baron  came, 
And  every  maid,  and  noble  dame, 
To  list  his  high  and  holy  strain, 
Within  the  choir  of  Melrose  fane, 
The  lady  of  Carelha'  joined  the  band, 
And  Mary,  the  flower  of  all  the  land. 

The  strain  rose  soft— the  strain  fell  low— 
O  !  every  heart  was  steeped  in  wo  ! 
Again  as  it  peaPd  a  swell  so  high. 
The  round  drops  stood  in  every  eye ; 
And  the  aisles  and  spires  of  the  hallowed  fan«. 
And  the  caves  of  Eildon,  sung  it  again. 

O  Mary  Lee  is  sick  at  heart  I 
That  pang  no  tongue  can  ever  impart  1 
It  was  not  love,  nor  joy,  nor  wo, 
Nor  thought  of  heaven  nor  earth  below  ; 
'Twas  all  conjoined  in  gleam  so  bright — 
A  poignant  feeling  of  delight  ; 
The  throes  of  a  heart  that  sought  its  rest. 
Its  stay — its  home  in  another's  breast ! 
Ah  !  she  had  heard  that  holy  strain 
In  a  land  she  hoped  to  see  again  ; 
And  seen  that  calm  benignant  eye 
Above  the  spheres  and  above  the  sky  ! 
And  thoiigli  the  strain  her  soul  had  won. 
She  yearned  for  the  time  that  it  was  done, 
To  greet  the  singer  in  language  bland, 
And  call  him  Cela,  and  clasp  his  hand. 

It  was  yon  ancient  tombs  among 
That  Marv  crlided  from  the  throng, 


M  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SUN. 

Smiled  in  the  fair  young  stranger's  face, 

And  proffered  her  hand  with  courteous  gracp 

He  started  aloof — he  bent  his  eye — 

He  stood  in  a  trance  of  ecstacy  ! 

He  blessed  the  power  that  had  impelled 

Him  onward  till  he  that  face  beheld  ; 

For  lie  knew  his  bourne  was  gained  at  last, 

And  all  his  wanderings  then  were  past. 


She  called  him  Cela,  and  made  demand 
Anent  his  kindred,  and  his  land  ; 
But  his  hand  upon  his  lip  he  laid, 
He  lifted  his  eye  and  he  shook  his  head  ! 
No — Hugo  of  Norroway  is  my  name, 
Ask  not  from  whence  or  how  I  came  : 
But  since  ever  memory's  ray  was  borne 
Within  this  breast  of  joy  forlorn, 
I  have  sought  for  thee,  and  only  thee  ; 
For  I  ween  thy  name  is  3Iary  Lee. 
My  heart  and  soul  with  thine  are  blent. 
My  very  being's  element — 
O  !  I  have  wonders  to  tell  thee, 
If  thou  art  the  virgin,  Mary  Lee  ! 


The  border  chiefs  were  all  amazed. 
They  stood  at  distance  round  and  gazed  : 
They  knew  her  face  he  never  had  seen, 
But  tliey  heard  not  the  words  that  passed  between. 
They  thought  of  the  power  that  had  death  beguiled ; 
They  thought  i  rave,  and  the  vision  wild  ! 

And  they  found  tliat  human  inference  failed  ; 
That  all  in  mvstery  was  veiled  ; 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE   SCX.  8v 

And  they  shunned  the  twain  in  holy  awe. 
The  flower  of  the  forest,  and  Carelha', 
A.re  both  by  the  tuneful  stranger  won, 
And  a  new  existence  is  begun. 

Sheltered  amid  his  mountains  afar, 
He  kept  from  the  bustle  of  Border  war  ; 
For  he  loved  not  the  field  of  foray  and  scathe,. 
Nor  the  bow,  nor  the  shield,  nor  the  sword  of  death ; 
But  he  tuned  his  harp  in  the  wild  unseen, 
And  he  reared  his  flocks  on  the  mountain  greeii 

He  was  the  foremost  the  land  to  free 
Of  the  hart,  and  the  hind  and  the  forest  tree  ; 
The  first  who  attuned  the  pastoral  reed 
On  the  mountains  of  Ettrick,  and  braes  of  Twee'ti. 
The  first  who  did  to  the  land  impart 
The  shepherd's  rich  and  peaceful  art, 
To  bathe  the  fleece,  to  cherish  the  dam. 
To  milk  the  ewe,  and  to  wean  the  lamb , 
And  all  the  joys  ever  since  so  rife 
In  the  shepherd's  simple,  romantic  life. 
More  bliss,  more  joy,  from  him  had  birth^ 
Than  all  the  conquerors  of  the  earth, 


They  lived  in  their  halls  of  Carelha' 
Uutil  their  children's  sons  they  saw  ; 
There  Mary  closed  a  life  refined 
To  purity  of  soul  and  mind, 
And  at  length  was  laid  in  old  Lindeec, 
In  the  very  grave  where  she  erst  had  been. 

Vol  II.— 4 


b'4  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   SUN. 

Five  gallant  sons  upbore  her  bier, 
And  honoured  her  memory  with  a  tear  ; 
And  her  stone,  though  now  full  old  and  gray 
fs  known  by  the  hinds  unto  this  day. 

From  that  time  forth,  on  Ettrick's  shore, 
Old  Hugo  the  harper  was  seen  no  more  ! 
Some  said  he  died  as  the  morning  rose  ; 
But  his  body  was  lost  ere  the  evening  close  ! 
He  was  not  laid  in  old  Lindeen ; 
For  his  grav^nor  his  burial  never  vvere  seen 

Some  say  that  at  eve  a  form  they  saw 
Arise  from  the  tower  of  Carelha', 
Aslant  the  air,  and  hover  awhile 
Above  the  spires  of  the  hallowed  pile, 
Then  sail  away  in  a  snow-white  shroud, 
And  vanish  afar  in  the  eastern  cloud. 

But  others  deemed  that  his  grave  was  made 
By  hands  unseen  in  the  greenwood  glade. 
Certes  that  in  one  night  there  grew 
A  little  mound  of  an  ashen  hue; 
And  some  remains  of  gravel  lay 
Mixed  with  the  sward  at  break  of  day  ; 
But  the  hind  passed  by  with  troubled  air, 
For  he  knew  not  what  might  be  slumbering  there 
And  still  above  the  mound  there  grows, 
Yearly  a  wondrous  fairy  rose. 

Beware  that  cairn  and  dark  green  ring  1 
For  the  elves  of  the  eve  have  been  heard  to  sing 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   THE    SUN.  ■S) 

Around  that  grave  with  eldritch  croon, 

Till  trembled  the  light  of  the  waning  moon  '. 

And  from  that  cairn,  at  midnight  deep. 

The  shepherd  has  heard  from  the  mountain  steep 

Arise  such  a  mellowed  holy  strain, 

As  if  the  minstrel  had  woke  again  ! 

Late  there  was  seen,  on  summer  tide. 
A  lovely  form  that  wont  to  glide 
Round  green  Bowhill,  at  the  fall  of  even, 
So  like  an  angel  sent  from  heaven, 
That  all  the  land  believed  and  said 
Their  Mary  Lee  was  come  from  the  dead  ; 
For  since  that  time  no  form  so  fair 
Has  ever  moved  in  this  earthly  air  : 
And  whenever  that  beauteous  shade  was  seen 
To  visit  the  walks  of  the  forest  green^ 
The  joy  of  the  land  ran  to  excess, 
For  they  knew  that  it  boded  them  happiness, ; 
Peace,  Love,  and  Truth  for  ever  smiled 
Around  the  genius  of  the  wild. 

Ah  me !  there  is  omen  of  deep  dismay. 
For  that  saint-like  form  has  vanished  away  ! 
I  have  watched  her  walks  by  the  greenwood  glade . 
And  the  mound  where  the  harper  of  old  was  laid  ; 
I  have  watched  the   bower  where   the   woodbin*^ 

blows, 
And  the  fairy  ring,  and  the  wondrous  rose, 
And  all  her  haunts  by  Yarrow's  shore, 
But  the  heavenly  form  I  can  see  no  more  ! 
She  comes  not  now  our  land  to  bless, 
Or  to  cherish  the  poor  and  the  fatherless, 


'ii(i  THE    PILGRIMS   0B   THE   SV?r. 

Who  lift  to  heaven  the  tearful  eye 
Bewailing  their  loss — and  well  may  1 1 
I  little  weened  when  I  struck  the  string. 
In  Fancy's  wildest  mood  to  sing, 
That  sad  and  low  the  strain  should  close. 
INIid  real;. instead  of  fancied  wees  ! 


IIE  END   OF    THE    PILGRIMS    nf    THE    srx 


SUPERSTITION. 


SUPERSTITION 


1. 

In  Caledonia's  glens  there  once  did  reign 
A  sovereign  of  supreme  unearthly  eye ; 

No  human  power  her  potence  could  restrain, 
No  human  soul  her  juflueuct;  iit:uy  : 
Sole  empress  o'er  the  mountain  homes,  that  Vk 

Far  from  the  busy  world's  unceasing  stir  ; 
But  gone  is  her  mysterious  dignity, 

And  true  Devotion  wanes  away  with  her 

While   in  loose  garb  appears   Corruption's  ba?'^^ 
binger. 

2. 
Thou  sceptic  leveller — ill-framed  with  thee 

Is  visionary  bard  a  war  to  wage  ; 
Joy  in  thy  light  thou  earth-born  SaduceC; 

That  earth  is  all  thy  hope  and  heritage  ; 


i(i  SUPERSTITION. 

Already  wears  thy  front  the  line  of  age  ; 
Thou  see'st  a  heaven  above — a  grave  before  : 

Does  that  lone  cell  thy  wishes  all  engage  ? 
Say,  does  thy  yearning  soul  not  grasp  at  more  ? 
Wo  to  thy  grovelling  creed,  thy  cold  ungenial  lore. 

3. 

Be  mine  to  sing  of  visions  that  have  been,. 

And  cherish  hope  of  visions  yet  to  be  : 
Of  mountains  clothed  in  everlasting  green. 

Of  silver  torrent  and  of  shadowy  tree, 

Far  in  the  ocean  of  eternity. 
Be  mine  the  faith  that  spurns  the  bourn  of  time  : 

The  soul  whose  eye  can  future  glories  see  : 
The  converse  here  with  things  of  purer  clime, 
\nd  hope  above  the  stars  that  soars  on  wing  sub- 
lime. 

4. 
But  she  is  gone  that  thrilled  the  simple  minds 
Of  those  I  loved  and  honoured  to  the  last  ; 
She  who  gave  voices  to  the  wandering  winds^ 

And  mounted  spirits  on  the  midnight  blast ; 

At  her  behest  the  trooping  fairies  past, 
And  wayward  elves  in  many  a  glimmering  band  ; 

The  mountains  teemed  with  life  and  sore  aghast 
Stood  maid  and  matron  'neath  her  mystic  wand, 
When  all  the  spirits  rose  and  walked   at  her  com- 
mand. 

5. 
And  she  could  make  the  brown  and  careless  boy 
All  breathless  stand,  unknowing  what  to  feai 


SUPERSTITION.  91 

Or  panting  deep  beneath  his  co'erlet  lie, 
When  midnight  whisper  stole  upon  his  ear. 
And  she  could  mould  the  vision  of  the  seer 

To  aught  that  rankled  brest  of  froward  wight ; 
Or  hang  the  form  of  cerement  or  of  bier 

Within  the  cottage  fire — O  woful  sight ! 

That  called  forth  many  a  prayer  and  deepeud  groan 
by  night.  » 

6. 
O  !  I  have  bowed  to  her  resistless  sway, 

When  the  thin  evening  vapours  floated  nigh  ; 
When  the  gray  plover's  wailings  died  away, 
And  the  tall  mountains  melted  into  sky  ; 

The  note  of  gloammg  bee  that  journeyed  by 
Sent  thro'  my  heart  a  momentary  knell , 

And  sore  I  feared  in  bush  or  brake  might  lie 
Things  of  unearthly  make — for  I  knew  well 
That  hour  with  danger  fraught  more  than  when 
midnight  fell. 

7. 
But  O  !  if  ancient  cemet'ry  was  near, 

Or  cairn  of  harper  murdered  long  ago, 
Gr  wandering  pedlar  for  his  hoarded  gear, 

Of  such  what  glen  of  Scotland  doth  not  know  1 

Or  grave  of  suicide  (upon  the  brow 
©f  the  bleak  mountain)  withered  all  and  gray  ; 
From  these  I  held  as  from  some  deadly  foe  : 
There  have  T  quaked  by  night  and  loused  by  day  , 
But  chiefly  where  I  weened  the  bard  or  warrior  la} . 


92  surERSTmoiX. 

8. 
For  many  a  wild  beart-thrilling  Scottish  bard 
In  lowland  dale  the  lyre  of  heaven  that  wooe 
.Sleeps  'neath  some  little  mound  or  lonely  swa^ 
Where  humble  dome  of  rapt  devotion  stood 
'Mid  heathy  wastes  by  Mary's  silent  flood, 
Or  in  the  moorland  glen  of  dark  Buccleuch  ; 
There  o'er  their  graves  the  heath-fowl's  mot;.. 
brood 
Track  with  light  feathery  foot  the  morning  dew  , 
There  play s.the  gamesome  lamb;  or  bleats  the  y 
ing  ewe, 

9. 
Yet,  there  still  meet  the  thoughtful  shepherd's  view 

The  marble  fount-stone,  and  the  rood  so  gray; 
And  often  there  he  sees  with  changeful  hue 

The  3now-white  scull  washed  by  the  bourn  away ; 

And  O !  if  'tis  his  chance  at  eve  to  stray, 
Lone  by  the  place  where  his  forefathers  sleep  ; 
At  bittern's  whoop  or  gor-cock's  startling  bay, 
How  heaves  his  simple  breast  with  breathings  deep; 
He  mutters  vow  to  heaven,  and  speeds  along  the 
steep. 

lo: 

For  well  he  knows,  along  that  desert  room. 
The  spirits  nightly  watch  the  sacred  clay  ; 

That,  cradled  on  the  mountain's  purple  bloom, 
By  him  they  lie  companions  of  the  day, 
His  guardian  friends,  and  listening  to  his  lay 

And  many  a  chant  floats  on  the  vacant  air. 
That  spirit  of  the  bard  ©r  warrior  may 


SUPERSTITION.  93 

i    u  the  forgotten  names  perchance  ihey  bare: 
For  many  a  warrior  wight,  and  nameless  bard  lies 
there ! 


11. 

Those  were  the  times  for  holiness  of  frame  ; 

Those  were  the  days  when  fancy  wandered  ffec 
That  kindled  in  the  soul  the  mystic  flame, 

And  the  rapt  breathings  of  high  poesy  ; 

Sole  empress  of  the  twilight — Wo  is  me! 
That  thou  and  all  thy  epectres  are  outworn  ; 

For  true  devotion  wanes  away  with  thee, 
All  thy  delerious  dreams  are  laughed  to  scorn, 
While  o'er  our  hills  has  dawned  a  cold  saturnine 
morn. 

12; 

Ijong  did  thy  fairies  linger  in  the  wild, 
When  vale  and  city  wholly  were  resigned, 

Where  hoary  cliffs  o'er  little  holms  were  piled. 
And  torrents  sung  their  music  to  the  wind  : 

The  darksome  heaven  upon  the  hills  reclined, 

Save  when  a  transient  sun-beam,  thro'  the  rain, 
Past  like  some  beauteous  phantom  of  the  mind 

Leaving  the  hind  in  solitude  again — 

These. were  their  last  retreats,  and  heard  their  part- 
ing strain. 

13. 

But  every  vice  effeminate  has  sped, 

Fast  as  the  spirits  from  our  bills  have  gone.- 

And  all  these  light  unbodied  forms  are  fled,. 
Or  good  or  evil;  save  the  ghost  alonej 


U4  SUPERSTITION, 

True,  when  the  kine  are  lowing  in  the  lone, 
An  evil  eye  may  heinous  mischief  brew ; 

But  deep  enchantments  to  the  wise  are  known,. 
That  certainly  the  blasted  herd  renew, 
And  make  the  eldron  crone  her  cantrips  sorely  rue 

14. 

O!  I  have  seen  the  door  ntKJSt  closely  barred  ; 

The  green  turf  fire  where  struck  was  many  f 
pin  : 
The  rhymes  of  incantation  I  have  heard, 

And  seen  the  black  dish  solemnly  laid  in 

Amid  the  boiling  liquid — Was  it  sin  ? 
Ah  !  no — 'twas  all  in  fair  defence  of  right. 

With  big  drops  hanging  at  her  brow  and  chin. 
Soon  comes  the  witch  in  sad  and  woful  plight; 
Is  cut    above  the  breath,  and  yelling  takes  he> 
flight ! 

15. 

And  I  have  seen,  in  gaunt  and  famished  guise 
The  brindled  mouser  of  the  cot  appear  ; 

A  haggard  wildness  darted  from  her  eyes ; 
No  marvel  was  it  when  the  truth  you  hear  ■ 
That  she  is  forced  to  carry  neighbour  near. 

Swift  thro'  the  night  to  countries  far  away  ; 

That  still  her  feet  the  marks  of  travel  bear  ; 

And  her  broad  back  that  erst  was  sleek  and  gray, 

O  !  hapless  beast !— all  galled  where  the  curst  sad- 
dle lay ! 


SUPERSTITION.  yo 

16. 
If  every  creed  has  its  attendant  ills, 

How  slight  were  thine  ! — a  train  of  airy  dreams  1 
No  holy  awe  the  cynic's  bosom  thrills  ; 

Be  mine  the  faith  diverging  to  extremes  ! 
What,  tho'  upon  the  moon's  distempered  beams, 
Erewhile  thy  matrons  galloped  thro'  the  heaven, 

Floated  like  feather  on  the  foaming  streams, 
Or  raised  the  winds  by  tenfold  fury  driven. 
Till  ocean  blurred  the  sky,  and  hills  in  twain  were 
riven. 

17. 

Where   fell  the    scathe  ?— The   beldames    were 
amused 

Whom  eld  and  poverty  had  sorely  crazed  ; 

What,  though  their  feeble  senses  were  abused 
By  gleesorae  demon  in  the  church-aisle  raised, 
With  lion  tail  and  eyes  that  baneful  blazed! 

Whose  bagpipe's  blare  made  all  the  roof  to  quake' 
But  ages  yet  unborn  will  stand  amazed 

At  thy  dread  power,  that  could  the  wretches  maKe 

Believe   these  things  all  real,  and  swear  thera   at 
the  stake. 

18. 

But  ah  I  thou  filled'st  the  guilty  heart  with  dread. 
And  brought  the  deeds  of  darkness  to  the  -day ! 

W'ho  was  it  made  the  livid  corse  to  bleed 

At  murderer's  touch,  and  cause  the  gelid  clay 
By  fancied  movement  all  the  truth  betray  ! 

Even  from  dry   bones  the   drops   of  blood  hav- 
sprung ! 


•*0  SUPERSTITION. 

'Twas  thou  Inquisitor ! — whose  mystic  sway 
A  shade  of  terror  over  nature  hung  ; 
A  feeling  more  sublime  than  poet  ever  sung. 

19. 

Fearless  the  shepherd  faced  the  midnight  storm 
To  save  his  flocks  deep  swathed  amid  the  snow ; 

Tho'  threatening  clouds  the  face  of  heaven  deform, 
The  sailor  feared  not  o'er  the  firth  to  row  ; 

Dauntless  the  hind  marched  forth  to  meet  the  foe ; 

For  why,  they  knew,  tho'  earth  and  hell  combined^ 
In  heaven  were  registered  their  days  below  ; 

That  there  was  One  well  able  and  inclined 

To  save  them  from  the  sword,  the  wave,  and  stor- 
my wind. 

20. 
O !  blissfuU  thought  to  poverty  and  age, 

When  troubles  press  and  dangers  sore  belay  i 
This  is  their  only  stay,  their  anchorage  ; 

"  It  is  the  will  of  heaven,  let  us  obey  ! 

*'  111  it  befits  the  creatures  of  a  day, 
••  Beneath  a  father's  chastening  to  repine." 

This  high  belief  in  Providence's  sway. 
In  the  eye  of  Reason  wears  into  decline  ; 
And  soon  that  heavenly  ray  must  ever  cease  t« 
shine. 

21. 
Yet  these  were  days  of  marvel— when  our  king; 

As  chronicles  and  sapient  sages  tell, 
^tood  with  his  priests  and  nobles  in  a  ring. 


SUPERSTITION:  ^7 

Searching  old  beldame  for  the  mark  of  hell, 
The  test  of  witchcraft  and  of  devilish  spell; 
And  when  I  see  a  hag,  the  country's  bane, 

With  rancorous  heart  and  tongue  of  malice  fell. 
Bhght  youth  and  beauty  with  a  burning  strain, 
I  wish  for  these  old  times  and  Stuarts  back  again 

22. 

Haply  'tis  weened  that  Scotland  now  is  free 
Of  witchcraft,  and  of  spell  o'er  human  life. 

Ah  me  ! — ne'er  since  she  rose  out  of  the  sea, 
Were  they  so  deep,  so  dangerous,  and  so  rife 
The  heart  of  man  unequal  to  the  strife 

Sinks  down  before  the  lightning  of  their  eyes. 
O  !  it  is  meet  that  every  maid  and  wife 

Some  keen  exorcist  still  should  scrutinize, 

And  bring  them  to  the  test,  for  all  their  sorceries. 

2.3. 
Much  have  I  owed  thee — Much  may  I  repine, 

Great  queen  !  to  see  thy  honours  thus  decay. 
Among  the  mountain  maids  the  power  was  thiue. 

On  blest  St.  Valentine's  or  Hallow  day. 
Our's  was  the  omen — theirs  was  to  obey  : 
Firm  their  belief,  or  most  demurely  feigned! 

Each  maid  "her  cheek  on  lover's  breast  would  lay 
And,  sighing,  grant  the  kiss  so  long  refrained  ; 
'Twas  sin  to  counteract  what  Providence  ordained  ' 

24. 
0  !  I  remember j'as  young  fancy  grew. 
How  oft  thou  spok'st  in  voice  of  distant  rll'  ■ 


98  SUPERSTITION. 

What  sheeted  forms  thy  plastic  finger  drew, 
Throned  on  the  shadow  of  the  moonlight  hill ; 

Or  in  the  glade  sormotionless  and  still 
That  scarcely  in  this  world  I  seemed  to  be  ; 

High  on  the  tempest  sing  thine  anthem  shrill 
Across  the  heaven  upon  the  meteor  flee, 
Or  in  the  thunder  speabifwith  voice  of  majesty 

25. 

All  these  are  gone — The  days  of  vision  o'er  ; 

The  bard  of  fancy  strikes  a  tuneless  string. 
O  !  if  I  wist  to  find  thee  here  no  more, 

My  Muse  should  wander  on  unwearied  wing. 

To  find  thy  dwelling  by  some  lonely  spring. 
Where  Norway  opes  her  forests  to  the  gale ; 

The  dell  thy  home,  the  cloud  thy  covering. 
The  tuneful  sea-maid  and  the  spectre  pale, 
Tending  thy  gloomy  throne,  amid  heaven's  awful 
veil. 

26. 
Or  shall  I  seek  thee  where  the  Tana  rolls 

Her  deep  blue  torrent  to  the  northern  main  ; 
Where  many  a  shade  of  former  huntsman  prowlo, 

AVhere  summer  roses  deck  th'  untrodden  plain, 

And  beauteous  fays  and  elves,  a  flickering  train  • 
Bance  with  the  foamy  spirits  of  the  sea. 

O  !  let  me  quake  before  thee  once  again, 
And  take  one  farewell  on  my  bended  knee, 
<irreat  Ruler  of  the  soul,  which  none  can  rule  like 
thee  ! 


MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR, 


^lADOR  OF  THE  MOOR 


A  POEM. 


BY  JAMES  HOGG. 


AUTHOR   ©F   THE   QUEEN'S   WAKE.   d^C . 


Wild  niiifu  ©f  the  desert !    fit  pastime  for  kin^, 
Whicli  still  the  nide  bard  in  his  solitude  siags. 

Wilson 


.YEW-YORK: 

PxtJBLISHED    BY    r>.     MA'LLORi 


TO 

MR.  JOHN  GRIEVE. 

I  knew  man  on  earth  that  loved  me  more 
•  more  approved  my  wayward  minstrelsy, 
;shrew  my  pen,  so  prone  to  rhyming  lore, 
it  should  dedicate  this  Book  to  thee  : 
It  when  I  think  of  all  thy  truth  to  me, 
id  love,  though  sorely  tried,  that  ne'er  gave  way 

once  all  thoughts  of  loftier  patron  flee. 
ight  is  the  gift,  for,  need  I  blush  to  say, 
lat  never  song  of  mine  had  seen  the  day, 
It  for  thy  friendship  and  unchanged  regard  ? 
0  thee  I  owe  them — How  shall  I  repay, 
y  more  than  brother  I — all  thy  poor  reward 

this,  thy  favourite  lay,  of  thy  too  favoured  fcn re- 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  Poem  is  partly  founded.ou  an  iu- 
ident  recorded  in  the  Scottish  annals  of  the  14tl- 
entury .  The  alteration  in  the  lady's  name,  which 
vas  Elizabeth  Moore,  was  necessary  on  account  o?' 
he  rhvthm. 


MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 


INTRODUCTION 


Vol.  II.--.; 


fNTRODUCTIOx\" 


1. 

THOU  Queen  of  Caledonia's  mountain  floods. 

Theme  of  a  thousand  gifted  bards  of  yore, 
Majestic  wanderer  of  the  wilds  and  woods, 

That  lovest  to  circle  clifl'and  mountain  hoar, 

And  with  the  winds  to  mix  thy  kindred  roar, 
Startling  the  shepherd  of  the  Grampian  ?len  ! 

Rich  are  the  vales  that  bound  thy  eastern  siiorc. 
And  fair  thy  upland  dales  to  human  ken  ; 
But  scarcely  are  thy  springs  known  to  the  sons  o' 
men. 


Oh,  that  some  spirit,  at  the  midnight  noon. 

Aloft  would  bear  me,  middle  space,  to  see 
Thy  thousand  branches  gleaming  to  the  moon, 

By  shadowy  hill,  gray  rock,  and  fairy  lea ; 

Thy  gleesome  elves  disporting  merrily 
In  glimmering  circles  by  the  lonely  dell, 

Or  by  the  sacred  fount;  or  hatmted  tree. 


116  MADOR  OF    THE    MOOR. 

Where  bow'd  the  saint,  as  hoary  legends  tell, 
And  Superstition's  last;  wild,  thrilling  visions  dwell 

3. 

To  Fancy's  eye  the  ample  scene  is  spread, 

The  yellow  moon-beam  sleeps  on  hills  of  dew,. 
On  many  an  everlasting  pyramid 

That  bathes  its  gray  head  in  celestial  blue. 

These  o'er  thy  cradle  stand  the  guardians  true,. 
Th'  eternal  bulkwarks  of  the  land  and  thee, 

And  evermore  thy  lullaby  renew 
To  howling  winds  and  storms  that  o'er  thee  flee  ■ 
All  hail,  ye  battlements  of  ancient  liberty ! 

4. 
There  the  dark  raven  builds  his  dreary  home  ; 

The  eagle  o'er  his  eyrie  raves  aloud  ; 
The  brindled  fox  around  thee  loves  to  roam, 

And  ptarmigans,  the  inmates  of  the  cloud  ; 

And  when  the  summer  flings  her  dappled  shroud 
O'er  reddening  moors,  and  wilds  of  soften'd  gray, 

Tlie  youthful  swain,  unfashioned,  unendow'd, 
The  brocket  and  the  lamb  may  round  thee  play  : 
These   thy  first  guests  alone,  thou  fair,  majestic 
Tay  ! 

5. 

But  bear  me,  Spirit  of  the  gifted  eye, 
Far  on  thy  pinions  eastward  to  the  main, 

O'er  garish  glens  and  straths  of  every  dye. 
Where  oxen  low  and  waves  the  yellow  grain  i 
Where  beetling  clifls  o'erhang  the  belted  plain 

In  ?-piral  forms,  fantastic,  wild,  and  riven : 


INTR0BT7CTI0N.  Ill 

Where  swell  the  woodland  choir  and  maiden's 

strain. 
As  forests  bend  unto  the  breeze  of  even, 
And  in  the  flood  beneath   wave  o'er  a  downward 

heaven. 

6. 
Then  hold  thy  visioned  course  along  the  ekicS; 

O'er  fertile  valleys  bounded  by  the  sea, 
Girdled  by  silver  baldrick,  which  now  vies 

In  broadness  with  the  ocean's  majesty  ; 

Where  pleasure  smiles  and  laughing  luxury, 
And  traflSc  bustles  out  the  live-long  day  ; 

Where  brazen  keels  before  the  billows  flee — 
Is  that  the  murmuring  rill  of  mountain  gray  ? 
Is  that  imperial  flood  the  wilder'd  Grampian  Tay  ? 

7. 
Far  on  thy  fringed  borders,  west  away. 

Queen  of  green  Albyn's  rivers,  let  me  roam. 
And  mark  thy  graceful  windings  as  I  stray 

When  drowsy  day-light  seeks  her  curtain'd  dome. 

Fain  would  a  weary  wanderer  from  liis  homC; 
The  wayward  minstrel  of  a  southland  dale, 

Sing  of  thy  mountain  birth,  thy  billowy  tomb, 
And  legends  old  that  linger  in  thy  vale  ; 
To  friendship,  and  to  thee,  is  due  the  simple  tale-- 

8. 
Old  Caledonia  !  pathway  of  the  storm 

That  o'er  thy  wilds  resistless  sweeps  along, 
Though  clouds  and  snows  thy  sterile  hills  deform^ 

Thou  art  the  land  of  freedom  and  of  song ! 


112  MADOR  OF   THE   MOOR. 

Land  of  the  eagle  fancy,  wild  and  strong, 
Land  of  the  loyal  heart  and  valiant  arm, 

Though  southern  pride  and  luxury  may  wrong 
Thy  mountain  honours,  still  my  heart  shall  warm 
At  thy   unquestioned   weir,  and  songs,  of  magic 
charm. 

9. 
Oh,  I  might  tell  where  ancient  cities  stood, 

And  I  might  sing  of  battles  lost  and  won  ; 
Of  royal  obsequies  and  halls  of  blood  ; 

And  daring  deeds  by  dauntless  warriors  done. 

Since  Scotland's  crimson  page  was  first  begun, 
Tay  was  the  scene  of  actions  great  and  high  ; 

But  aye,  when  from  the  echoing  hills  1  run, 
My  froward  harp  refuses  to  comply  ; — 
The  nursling  of  the  wild,  the  Mountain  Bard  am  I. 

10. 

I  cannot  sing  of  Longcarty  and  Hay, 

Nor  long  on  deeds  of  death  and  danger  dwell ; 
Of  old  Dunsinnan  towers,  or  Birnam  gray, 

Where  Canmore  battled  and  the  Villain  fell. 

But  list !  I  will  an  ancient  story  tell, 
A  tale  of  nieikle  wo  and  mystery, 

Of  sore  mishaps  that  an  Old  Sire  befel. 
Wise  dame  and  Minstrel  of  full  high  degree, 
And  visions  of  dismay,  unfitting  man  to  see, 

11. 

And  thou  shalt  hear  of  Maid,  whose  melting  eye 
Spoke  to  the  heart  what  tongue  could  never  say. 


i 


I>- TROD  UO  HON.  lO 

A  maid  right  gentle,  frolicsome,  and  sly, 
And  biythe  as  lambkin  on  a  morn  of  May  : 
Whose  auburn  locks,  when  waving  to  the  day, 

And  lightsome  form  of  sweet  simplicity, 
Stole  many  a  fond  unweeting  heart  away, 

And  held  those  hearts  in  pleasing  slavery. 
Wo  that  such  flower  should  e'er  by  lover  blight- 
ed be  ! 

12, 

But  ween  not  thou  that  Nature's  simple  Bard 

Can  e'er  unblemished  character  define ; 
True  to  his  faithful  monitor's  award. 

He  paints  her  glories  only  as  they  shine. 

Of  men  all  pure,  and  maidens  all  divine, 
Expect  not  thou  his  wild-wood  lay  to  be  ; 

But  those  whose  virtues  and  defects  combiQe, 
Such  as  in  erring  man  we  daily  see — 
The  child  of  failings  born;  and  !=cathed  humanity, 


MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 


I 


CANTO  L 

THE  HUNTING,. 

ARGUMENT. 

■God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all ! 
A  woful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy  Chace  befall ; 
To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Earl  Percy  took  his  way  ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  thai  dav.. 


n^ 


MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 


CVNTO  1. 


THE  HUNTING 


1 

ilASTE,  ranger  to  the  Athol  mountains  blue  • 
Unleash  the  hounds,  and  let  the  bugles  sing ' 

The  thousand  traces  in  the  morning  dew, 

The  bounding  deer,  the  black-cock  on  the  wing. 
Bespeak  the  rout  of  Scotland's  gallant  king; 

The  bearded  rock  shouts  to  the  desert  hoar  ; 
Haste,  Ranger ! — all  the  mountain  echoes  ring, 

From  cairn  of  Bruar  to  the  dark  Glen-More; 

The  forest's  in  a  howl,  and  all  is  wild  uproar  I 

2. 

And  many  a  gallant  hart  that  time  was  slain  ! 

And  many  a  roe-buck  founder'd  in  the  glen  ! 
The  gor-cock  beat  the  shivering  winds  in  vain  ; 

The  antler'd  rover  sought  his  widow'd  den  ; 

Kven  birds  that  ne'er  had  seen  the  forms  of  men 


Sl8  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOK.' 

But  roosted  careless  on  the  desert  doone; 

An  easy  mark  to  ruthless  archer's  ken  I 
No  more  they  whir  and  crow  at  dawning  boon,. 
Far  on  their  grizzled  heights,  contiguous  to  ti  • 
moon. 

3. 

Where'er  the  chace  to  dell  or  valley  near'd, 

There  for  the  royal  train  the  feast  was  laid  , 
There  was  the  monarch's  light  pavilion  rear'd; 

There  flow'd  the  wine,  and  much  in  glee  was  sai.. 

Of  lady's  form  and  blooming  mountain  maid  ; 
And  many  a  fair  was  toasted  to  the  brim  : 

But  knight  and  squire  a  languishing  betray'd 
When  one  was  named,  whose  eye  made  diamona 

dim  ! 
The  king  look'd  sad  andsigh'dl  no  sleep  that  night' 
for  him ! 

4. 

The  morning  rose,  but  scarce  they  could  discern 

When  Night  gave  in  her  sceptre  to  the  day, 
The  clouds  of  heaven  were  moor'd  so  dark  and  dern, 

And  wrapt  the  forest  in  a  shroud  of  gray. 

Man,  horse,  and  hound,  in  listless  langour  lay, 
For  the  wet  rack  traversed  the  mountain's  brow  ; 

But,  long  ere  night,  the  monarch  stole  away  ; 
His  courtiers  search'd,  and  raised  the  loud  halloo, 
But  well  they  knew  their  man,  and  made  not  mu<  ' 
ndo 


THE  HUNTING.  119 

5. 
Another  day  came  on,  another  still, 

And  aye  the  clouds  their  drizzly  treasures  shed , 
The  pitchy  mist  hung  moveless  on  the  hill, 
And  hooded  every  pine-tree's  reverend  head  : 
The  heavens  seemM  sleeping  on  their  mountain 
bed, 
The  straggling  roes  mistimed  their  nontide   den. 

And  stray'd  the  forest,  belling  for  the  dead, 
Started  at  every  rustle — paused  and  then 
Sniff'd,  whistling  in  the  wind,  and  bounded  to  the 
glen. 

6, 

The  king  was  lost,  and  much  conjecture  past. 

At  length  the  morning  rose  in  lightsome  blue,. 
Far  to  the  west  her  pinken  veil  she  cast ; 

Up  rose  the  fringed  sun,  and  softly  threw 

A  golden  tint  along  the  moorland  dew  : 
The  mist  had  sought  the  winding  vales,  and  lay 

A  slumbering  ocean  of  the  softest  hue, 
Where  mimic  rainbows  bent  in  every  bay. 
And  thousand  islets  smiled  amid  the  watery  way, 

7. 
The  steeps  of  proud  Ben-Glow  the  nobles  scaled. 

For  there  they  beard  their  monarch's  bugle  yell ; 
First  on  the  height,  the  beauteous  morn  he  hail'd, 

And  rested,  wandering,  on  the  heather  bell. 

The  amber  blaze  that  tipt  the  moor  and  fell, 
The  fleecy  clouds  that  roU'd  afar  below, 

The  hounds'  impatient  whine,  the  bugle's  swei! 


i~0  3IAD0R  OF  THE  MOOR. 

Raised  in  his  breasf  a  more  than  wonted  glow. 
The  nobles  found  him  pleased,  nor  further  strove 
know. 


The  driver  circle  narrowed  on  the  heath, 

Close,  and  more  close,  the  deer  were  bound! 

by, 

Upon  the  bow-string  lies  the  shaft  of  death  ! 

Breathless  impatience  burns  in  every  eye  I 
At  once  a  thousand  winged  arrows  fly ; 
The  gray-hound  up  the  glen  outstrips  the  wind 

At  once  the  slow-hounds'  music  rends  the  sky 
The  hunter's  whoop  and  halloo  cheers  behind  ! 
Halloo !  away  they  speed !  swift  as  the  course 
mind! 

9. 

There  roll'd  the  bausind'  hind  adowii  the  linn, 

Transfix'd  by  arrow  from  the  Border  bow  ; 
There  the  poor  roe-deer  quakes  the  clift' within, 

The  silent  gray -hound  watching  close  below. 

But  yonder  far  the  chesnut  rovers  go, 
O'er  hill,  o'er  dale,  they  mock  thy  hounds  and  thee  ; 

Cheer,  hunter  cheer  !  unbend  thy  cumbrous  bow, 
Bayard  and  blood-hound  now  thy  hope  must  be. 
Or  soon  they  gain  the  steeps,  and  pathless  woods 
of  Dee. 

10. 
Halloo,  o'er  hill  and  dale  the  slot  is  warm  ' 
To  every  cliff  the  bugle  lends  a  bell ; 


THE  HUNTING.  121 

On  to  the  northward  peals  the  loud  alarm, 
And  aye  the  brocket  and  the  sorrel  fell  : 
But  flying  still  before  the  mingled  yell, 

The  gallant  herd  outspeeds  the  troubled  wind  ; 
Their  rattling  antlers  brush  the  birken  dell ; 

Their  haughty  eyes  the  rolling  tear-drops  blind  , 

But  onward  still  thy  speed,  and  look  not  once  be 
behind^! 

11. 

Tiie  Tilt  is  vanished  on  the  upland  gray, 

The  Tar f  is  dwindled  to  a  foaming  rill; 
J5ut  many  a  hound  lay  gasping  by  the  way. 

Bathed  in  the  stream,  or  stretch'd  upon  the  hill. 

The  cooling  brook  with  burning  jaws  they  swill. 
Nor  once  will  deign  to  scent  the  tainted  ground  ; 

The  herd  has  cross'd  Breriach's  gulfing  gill, 
The  Athol  forest's  formidable  bound. 
And  in  the  Garchraye  a  last  retreat  have  found 


12. 

One  hound  alone  has  cross'd  the  dreary  height, 
The  deep-toned  Jowler,  ever  stanch  and  true. 

The  chace  was  o'er  ;  but  long  ere  fell  the  night. 
Full  thirty  hinds  those  gallant  hunters  slew, 
Of  every  age  and  kind  ;  the  drivers  drew 

Their  quarry  on  behind  by  ford  and  lea  : 
But  never  more  shall  eye  of  monarch  view 

A«  Scotland's  king  beheld  from  the  tall  peaks  cf 
Dcp. 


122  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 

13. 

Oa  gray  Macduich's  upmost  verge  he  stood; 

The  loftiest  cone  of  all  that  desert  dun  ; 
The  seas  afar  were  streamer'd  o'er  with  blood  I 

Dark  forests  waved,  and  winding  waters  run  : 
For  nature  glow'd  beneath  the  evening  sun  ; 
The  western  shadows  dark'ning  every  dale. 

Where  dens  of  gloom,  the  sight  of  man  to  shun, 
Lay  shrouded  in  impervious  magic  veil ; 
While  o'er  them  pour'd  the  rays  of  light  solovely 
pale. 

14. 

But  oh  what  bard  could  sing  the  onward  sight ! 

The  piles  thatfrown'd,  the  gulfs  that  yawn'd  be- 
neath ! 
Downward  a  thousand  fathoms  from  the  height, 

Grim  as  the  caverns  in  the  land  of  death  ! 

Like  mountains  shatter'd  in  th'  Eternal's  wrath, 
When  fiends  their  banners  'gainst  his  reign  un- 
furl'd— 

A  grisly  wilderness!  a  land  of  scathe! 
Rocks  upon  rocks  in  dire  confusion  hurl'd ! 
A  rent  and  formless  mass,  the  rubbish  of  a  world. 


15. 

Vs  if  by  lost  pre-eminence  abased, 
Hill  behind  hill  erected  locks  of  gray, 

\nd  every  misty  morion  was  upraised. 
To  speak  their  farewell  to  the  god  o(  Day  ; 
When  tempests  rave  along  their  polar  way. 

■vot  closer  rear  the  billows  of  the  deep, 


THE  HUNTING.  123 

shining  with  silver  foam,  and  maned  with  spray, 
!  up  the  mid-way  heaven  they  war  and  sweep, 
len,  foiPd  and  chafed  to  rage,  roll  down  the  bro- 
ken steep. 

16. 
rst  died  upon  the  peaks  the  golden  hue, 
A.nd  O'er  them  spread  a  beauteous  purple  skref  n 
len  rose  a  shade  of  pale  cerulean  blue, 
Softening-  the  hills  and  hazy  vales  between  : 
Deeper  and  deeper  grew  the  magic  scene. 
(  darker  shades  of  the  night-heaven  came  on, 
Nu  star  along  the  firmament  was  seen. 
It  solemn  Majesty  prevailed  alone 
•ound  the  brows   of  Eve,  upon  her  Grampian 
throne. 

17. 

eep  the  descent,  and  rugged  was  the  way 

By  which  the  monarch  and  his   knights  came 

down, 
nd  oft  they  groped  and  stumbled  on  the  brae. 
For  far  below,  on  vale  of  heather  brown, 
Phe  tents  were  rear'd,  and  fires  of  evening  shone  : 
he  mountain  sounds  had  perished  in  the  gloom. 
All  save  th'  unwearied  Jowler's  swelling  tone, 
hat  bore  to  trembling  stag  the  sounds  of  doom. 
While  every  cave  of  Night  roll'd  back  the  breath- 
ing boom. 

K 

h'  impassion'd  huntsman  wended  up  the  brae. 
And  loud  the  order  of  desistance  bawl'd  ; 


124  MADOR  OF   THE   MOOR. 

I 

But  aye,  as  louder  wax'd  his  tyrant's  say,  ' 

Louder  and  fiercer,  Jowler,  unappall'd, 
Across  the  glen,  along  the  mountain  brawl'^, 

Unpractised  he  to  part  till  blood  was  seen — 
Though  sore  by  precipice  and  darkness  gall'd 

He  turn'd  his  dewlap  to  the  starry  sheen, 

And  howl'd  in  furious  tone,  with  yelp  and  bay 
tween. 

19. 
Well  known  that  spot,  once  graced  by  sovereiL 
sleep. 

Still  bears  it  the  memorial  of  his  name  ; 
The  silver  torrent  play'd  his  vesper  deep, 

The  mountain  plover  sung  his  loud  acclaim  ; 

Inured  to  toil  and  battle's  deadly  flame, 
The  Stuart  rose  the  son  of  health  and  might, 

Ah  !  how  unlike  the  bland  voluptuous  frame 
In  this  unthrifty  age,  that  takes  delight 
To  doze  in  qualms  by  day,  and  revel  out  the  night 

20. 
The  Night  had  journey'd  up  the  dark  blue  steep, 

And  leaned  upon  the  casement  of  the  sky, 
Smiling  serenely  o'er  a  world  in  sleep, 

As  millions  of  her  wand'ring  elfins  sly  ; 

Harassing  helpless  mortals  as  they  lie 
With  dreams  and  fantasies  of  endless  train  ; 

With  tantalizing  sweets  that  mock  the  eye, 
With  startling  horror,  and  with  visions  vain, 
And  every  thrilling  trance  of  pleasure  and  of  pani 


THE   HUNTING.  125 

21. 
1  mantle  wrapt,  and  stretch'd  on  flowery  heath, 
She  saw  the  king  of  Scotland  weary  lie  ; 

0  deep  his  slumber,  that  the  hand  of  death 
Arrests  not  more  the  reasoning  faculty  ; 
Yet  was  his  fancy  wrapt  in  passion  high,    - 
[e  toil'd  with  visions  of  a  wayward  dream  ; 

Quiver  d  his  limbs,  his  bosom  broke  the  sigh, 
;e  clasp'd  the  yielding  heath,  and  named  a  name, 
;e  would  not  for  his  crown  to  Nobles'  ear  it  came  ! 

22. 
he  heavenly  guardian  of  the  royal  head, 
That  rules  events  and  elements  at  will, 
nused  in  wilderness  to  watch  his  bed, 
Or  spread  his  shelt'ring  pinions  on  the  hill, 
Unrife  in  circumstance  foreboding  ill, 
et  trembled  for  some  danger  lingering  near. 
What  gath'ring  sound  cumes  nigher,  nigher  still, 
Thy  does  the  wakening  hound  turn  up  his  ear, 
hen  start,   with   shorten'd    bark,  and  bristle  all 
with  fear  ? 

23. 

ast  gains  th'  alarm — the  nobles,  half  awake, 

1  Restrain  their  breathing,  mindless  where  they 

lie  ; 
."he  sleepy  ranger  starts  from  out  the  brake, 
\  With  mouth  wide  open  and  unvision'd  eye  ; 
Knight,  squire,  and  hind,  in  one  direction  fly, 
{ix'd  with  the  hounds  that  loud  in  couples  bay. 


126  MADOR  OF  THE   MOOR, 

All  to  the  downward  bum  that  sounded  byC; 
For  there  aro^e  the  dubious,  frantic  bray, 
That  raised  the  dreamer's  eye  and  all  that  lou  . 
fray. 

24. 
Oh,  smile  not  at  the  confluent  midnight  scene, 
The  blazing  torch,  the  looks  of  wild  dismay 
It  was  no  angry  spirit  of  the  glen, 
_No  murd'rous  clansmen  mix'd  in  red  array  ; 
There  stood  the  monarch  of  the  wild  at  bay, 
The  impetuous  Jowler  howling  at  his  brow, 
His  cheeks  all  drench'd  with  brine,  his  antle 
gray 
Moving  across  the  cliff,  majestic,  slow. 
Like  living   fairy  trees   of  blench'd  and  ieafle; 
bough. 

25. 
With  ruthless  shaft  they  pierced  his  heaving  brea 

The  baited,  thirsty  Jowler  laps  his  blood  ; 
The  royal  hunter  his  brave  hound  caress'd, 

Lauded  his  zeal  and  spirit  unsubdued  ; 

While  the  staunch  victor,  of  approval  proud, 
Roll'd  his  brown  back  upon  the  prostrate  slain, 

Caper'd  around  in  playful  whelpish  mood. 
As  if  unspent  by  all  his  toil  and  pain, 
Then   lick'd  his   crimson   flew,  and  look'd  to  tl 
hills  again. 

26. 
For^three  long  days  the  deer  were  driven  afar. 
And  many  a  herd  was  thinn'd  and  sore  bespent 


THE    HUKTIiVC.  127 

^hrougb  dark  Glen-Avin,  and  the  woods  of  Mar, 
Hart,  hind,  and  roe,  in  trembling  trails  were  blent. 

Still  in  the  wild  remained  the  royal  tent ; 
►ne  little  bothy  stood  behind  the  lea, 

Where  oft  at  eve  the  king  and  nobles  went 
'he  setting  sun  and  soaring  erne  to  see, 
•ehind  the  dreadful  clifls,   that  watch  the  springs 
of  Dee. 

27. 
'ne  eve  they  sat  all  in  a  jocund  row. 
The  cruel  knight  of  Souden  he  was  one  ; 
'hey  noted  horror  staring  on  his  brow. 
His  lip  was  quivering,  and  his  colour  gone  ! 
And  aye,  he  look'd  the  startled  knights  upon, 
"hen  roird  his  troubled  glance  along  the  hill. 
*'■  What  moves  thee  ?"  said  the  king,  In  mildest 

tone. 
[e  bow'd  his  head,  but  held  his  silence  still. 
'  What  moves  my  gallant  knight  ?  Speak,  Souden, 
art  thou  ill  ?'' 

28. 

3Iy  sovereign  liege,  forgiveness  I  implore  , 
Strange  recollections  dim  my  palsied  sight ; 
ut  this  same  dreary  scene  I've  seen  before, 
Either  in  trance,  or  vision  of  the  night. 

■  Some  dismal  doom  shall  soon  my  honours  blight; 
know  these  bodings  fraught  with  wo  to  be. 
It  seems  as  demon  dragg'd  a  deed  to  light, 
hat  lies  unfathorn'd  even  to  destiny  I" — 

j  'h  ne'er  may  liel  n:;an  keep  with  murderer  com- 
pany ! 


123  MADOR  OF   THE   MOOR. 

29. 
No  more  he  spoke  that  eve,  as  legends  tell; 

No  orders  issued  to  his  page  or  groom ; 
But  servitors,  with  trembling,  raark'd  full  wei: 

A  wondrous  face  behind  him  in  the  gloom  ; 

Of  flame  it  seem'd,  yet  nothing  did  illume  : 
Laughing,  revenge,  gleam'd  red  in  every  line  , 

But  how  it  enter'd  the  pavilion'd  room, 
Or  how  it  past,  no  mortal  could  divine ! 
A  visitant  it  seem'd  from  some  unhallow'd  slu ; 

30. 
Again  the  low'ring  clouds  immure  the  hill ; 

Again  the  sportsmen  stretch  their  limbs  in 
To  the  lone  bothy,  by  the  sounding  rill, 
The  king  retired,  its  wildness  pleased  him  bcs  , 

With  his  good  knights  to  list  the  song  and  je 
His  ancient  minstrel  waiting  at  command, 

Gilbert  of  Shlel,  by  all  the  land  confest 
A  minstrel  worthy  by  his  king  to  stand, 
And   play  his  native  airs,  with  sounding  harf 
hand. 

31. 

That  evening,  call'd  to  sing,  he  framed  a  lay, — 
A  lay,  of  such  mysterious  tendency. 

It  stole  the  listeners'  reasoning  powers  away 
They  dream'd  not  that  they  lay  in  moors  of  D 
But  in  some  fairy  isle  amid  the  sea, 

So  well  did  Fancv  mould  her  visions  vain  • 


THE   HCKTIKG,  129 

Bent  was  the  minstrel's  eye,  and  wild  to  see. 
Vs  thus  he  pour  "d  the  visionary  strain  : 
)h.  ne'er  shall  Grampian  echo  murmur  such  again' 


THE  HARPER'S  SONG. 

There  wals  ane  auld  oaryl  wonit  in  yon  howe, 

Lemedon  !  lemedon  !  aijden  lillehu  ! 
lis  face  was  the  geire,  and  his  hayre  was  the  woo 

Sing  Ho  !  Ro  !  Gillan  of  Allanhu  !         [&c, 
tut  och  !  quhan  the  mure  getis  his   cuerlet  gray 
luhan  the  gloamyng  hes  flauchtit  the  nychte  and 

the  day,  &c. 
tuhan   the   crawis  haif  flowin  to  tlie    grelnwode 

schaw, 
.nd  the  kydde  hes  blet  owr  the  Lammer  Law  ; 
luhan  the  dewe  hes  layde  the  klaiver  asteep, 
..nd  the  gowin  hes  fauldit  hir  buddis  to  sleep  ; 
luhan  nochte  is  herde  but  the  merlinis  mene— 
»ch  !  than  that  gyre  caryl  is  neuir  his  lene '. 

Anebonnye  baby,  se  rneike  and  raylde, 
i.y  walkis  wyths  hym  the  dowie  wylde  ■ 
Tie  gowlin  getis  of  sturt  and  stryfte. 
■i.nd  wearie  wailis  of  mortyl  lyffe, 
iVald  all  be  hushet  till  endlesse  pece 
-t  ane  blynke  of  that  babyis  fece  ! 

Hir  browe  se  fayre,  and  her  ee  se  meike. 
nd  the  damyske  roz  that  blumis  on  her  cheike 


130  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 

Hir  lockis,  and  the  bend  of  her  bonnye  bree^ 
And  hir  smyle  mochte  waukin  the  deide  to  see 


Hir  snoode.  befryngit  with  mony  a  geme, 
Wals  stouin  fra  the  raynbowe's  brychtest  heme 
And  hir  raile,  mair  quhyte  than  snawye  dryfte, 
Wals  neuir  wovin  auethe  the  lyfte, 
It  keust  sikn  lychte  on  hill  and  gaire, 
It  shawit  the  wylde  deer  til  hir  laire  ; 
And  the  fayries  wakinit  fra  their  beddis  of  dewf 
And  they  sang  ane  hyme,  and  the  hyme  was  ne' 
List,  lordyngs,  list!  for  nuir  agyne 
Shalt'  heire  sikn  wylde  wanyirdlye  strayne. 
For  they  sang  the  nychte-gale  in  ane  swoone, 
And  they  sang  the  goud  lockes  fra  the  moone  ; 
They  sung  the  reidbreiste  fra  the  wud, 
And  the  laueroke  out  of  the  merlit  clud ; 
And  sum  wee  feres  of  bludeless  byrthe 
Came  out  of  the  wurmholes  of  the  yirthe, 
And  swoofit  se  lychtlye  round  the  lee, 
That  they  waldna  kythe  to  mortyl  ee  ; 
But  their  erlish  sang  it  rase  se  shill, 
That  the  waesum  tod  youlit  on  the  hill  ( 
O  lordyngg,  list  the  cronach  blande  ! 
The  flycherynge  songe  of  Fayrie-land  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FAIRIES 

Sing  aden  1  aden  !  lillelu  ! 
Bonnye  bairne,  we  sing  to  you! 
Up  the  Quhyte,  and  doune  tlie^BIak; 
No  ane  leuer.  no  ane  lak. 


THE  HUSTIN-G 

No  ane  shado  at  our  bak  ; 
No  ane  stokyng,  no  ane  schue; 
No  ane  bendit  blevir  blue. 
No  ane  traissel  in  the  dews  ! 
Bonnye  bairne,  we  sin^  to  you^ 

ArDE.V  !  ARDEN  !  LILLELU  I  &C 


Speile  1  speile ! 
The  raoone-rak  speile  ! 
Warre  the  rowar,  warre  the  steile, 
Throu  the  rok  and  ihrou  the  reile, 
Rounde  about  lyke  ane  spynning  wheilt 
Throu  the  libbert,.  throu  the  le, 
Rounde  the  yirde  and  rounde  the  se,. 
Bonnye  bairne  we  sing  to  thee, 
Round  the  blumis  and  bellis  of  dewe . 

AyDES'  !  AYDEN  !  LILLELU  ! 

Speide  !  speide  ! 

Lyving  or  deide ! 
Faster  than  the  fyirie  gleide, 
Biz  throu  Laplin's  tyrling  dryfte  1 
Rounde  the  moone,  and  rounde  the  lyftt 
Kye  we  ring,  and  aye  we  sing 
Our  hune!  hune! 
\nd  ante-tune ! 
Veuir !  neuir !  neuir  dune  ! 
Jp  the  Leider  and  doune  the  Dye 
Vye  we  sing  our  luUabye  ! 
3onnye  bairne,  we  sing  to  you. 
Vyden!  ayden!  ullelu  ! 

Vol.  II.— 6. 


ni 


132  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOK. 

Ryng  !  ryng ! 
Daunce  and  sing ! 
Hiche  on  the  brume  year  garlandis  hyng 
For  the  barnis  sleipe  is  sweite  and  sure. 
And  the  maydenis  reste  is  blist  and  pure 
Thro  all  the  lyukis  of  Lammer-mure  ; 
Sen  our  bonny e  baby  was  sent  fra  haven. 
Schocomis  owrnycht  withe  the  dewe  of  even 
And  quhan  the  sone  keikes  out  of  the  maino, 
Scho  swawis  with  the  dewe  to  heven  again. 
But  the  lychte  shall  dawne  and  the  houiat  flei 
The  deide  shall  ake,  and  the  day  shall  be 
Quhan  scho  shall  smyle  in  the  gladsum  noone, 
And  sleipe  and  sleipe  in  the  lychte  of  the  moone 
Then  shall  our  luias  weke  anewe, 
With  herpe  and  vale  and  ayril  too, 
To  Ayde.v!  ayden  I  lillelu! 


Hyde  !  hyde  1 
Quhateuir  betyde, 
Elfe  and  dowle  that  ergh  to  byde  ! 
The  littil  wee  burdie  niai  cheipe  in  the  wa, 
The  plevir  mai  sing,  and  the  coke  mai  craw 
For  neuir  ane  spyrit  derke  and  doure 
Dar  raike  the  creukis  of  Lammer-mure 
And  everlike  gaiste  of  gysand  hue 
Shall  melt  in  the  breize  our  baby  drew  ' 
But  we  ar  left  iu  the  grein-wud  glen, 
Bekaus  we  luf  the  chylder  of  men, 
Svveitlye  to  sing  our  flawmand  new  ; 
Bonnye  bairne,  we  sing  to  you, 

AYDES  !  AYDEN  !  LILLELU  ! 


THEHUN'TING.  133 

Pace  !  pace  ! 
Spyrits  of  grace ! 
Sweite  is  the  smyle  of  our  babyis  face  ; 
The  kelpye  dernis,  in  dreide  and  dule, 
Deipe  in  the  howe  of  his  eirye  pule  ; 
Gil-3Ioules  frehynde  the  hallen  mene  fle, 
Throu  the  dor-threshil,  and  throu  the  dor-ke, 
And  the  mer-mayde  mootes  in  the  sairfrone  se. . 
But  we  ar  left  in  the  greine-wud  glen, 
Bekaus  we  luf  the  chylder  of  men, 
Svveitlye  to  sing  and  neuir  to  rue, 
Sweitlye  to  sing  our  last  adue  ; 
Bonnye  bairne,  we  sing  to  you  ! 

AYDEN  !  AY  DEN  !  LILLELU  ! 

Sing !  sing ! 
How  shall  we  sing 
Rounde  the  bairne  of  the  spiritis  Kyng  '. 
Lillelu  !  lillelu  I  mount  in  a  ryng  ; 
Fayries  away  !  away  on  the  wyng  ; 
We  too  maune  flytt  to  ane  land  of  blisse 
To  ane  land  of  holy  silentnesse  ! 
To  ane  land  quhair  the  nycht-wynd  neulr  blewe  ! 
But  thy  fayre  spryng  shall  euir  be  newe  ! 
Quahan  the  moone  shall  walk  ne  mayre  to  wane. 
'And  the  clud  and  the  raynbowe  baithe  are  gane, 
In  bowirs  abone  the  brik  of  the  day 
We'll  sing  to  our  baby  for  ever  and  ay  I 

Than  the  caryl  he  saw  them  swoof  alang. 
And  he  herds  the  wordis  of  thair  leifu  sang; 
They  seemit  to  lyng  asklent  the  wynde, 
And  left  ane  streaniourie  trak  behynde  , 


134  MADOK  OF  THE  MOOR. 

But  he  heirit  them  singyng  as  they  flew. 
Ayden  !  atden'!  lillelu! 


Than  the  car}!  liftit  the  babe  se  yung, 
And  nemit  hir  with  ane  trerailous  tung  ; 
And  the  lychte  of  God  strak  on  his  face 
As  he  nelit  on  the  dewe,.  and  callither  Grace 
And  he  barrit  the  day  of  sorrowe  and  reuth 
To  flee  fra  the  bairne  of  Heavenly  Truthe,, 
And  he  barrit  the  deidis  that  nurice  paine 
Euir  to  tlirall  the  worild  again. 
Than  he  claspit  his  handis,  and  wepit  ful  sail 
Quhan  he  bade  hir  adue  for  evirmare. 
O  neuir  wais  babyis  smyle  se  meike 
Quhan  scho  fand  the  teir  drap  on  her  cheike 
And  neuir  wals  babys  leuke  se  wae 
Quhan  scho  saw  the  tail  auld  caryl  gae  ; 
But  all  his  eiless  ouphen  trayne, 
And  all  his  gaistis  and  gyis  war  gane ; 
The  gleides  that  gleimit  in  the  derksome  schaw 
And  his  fayries  had  flown  the  last  of  a": 
Than  the  puir  auld  caryl  was  blythe  to  fle 
Away  fra  the  emerant  isle  of  the  se, 
And  neuir  mayre  seikis  the  walkis  of  men. 
Unless  in  the  diske  of  the  glomyng  glen. 

52. 

The  harper  ceased;  the  chords,  with  sighing  ton 
On  list'ners'  in  soft  vibrations  fell ; 

They  almost  ween'd  the  parting  moan 
Of  the  old  reverend  sire,,  and  wish'd  him  well* 
On  gospel  faith,  and  superstition's  spell 


THE  HUNTING.  135 

The  converse  turn'd,  and  high  the  dispote  ran  ; 

And  words  were  said  unfitting  bard  to  tell ; 
Jnfitting  tongue  of  poor  despondent  man, 
Still  prone  to  yearn  and  doubt  o'er  all  he  cannCt 
scan. 

33. 

To  what  unsaintly  goal  the  words  had  borne, 
Dubious  conjecture  only  can  portray  : 

Fust  in  the  blab  of  Souden's  impious  scorn 

Enter'd  a  stranger  guest  ia  poor  array  ! 

His  locks  were  thin,  and  bleach'd  a  silver  gray  ; 

His  reverend  beard  across  his  girdle  hung. 
Each  mind  was  carried,  by  resistless  sway, 

To  the  old  carl  of  whom  the  minslrel  sung. 

Blench'd  was  the  proudest  cheek,  and  mute  was 
every  tongue  I 

34. 
06  stood  erect,  but  raised  not  up  his  eye, 

Seeming  to  listen  for  expected  sound  ; 
But  all  was  still  as  eight's  solemnity, 

Not  even  a  sandal  grazed  upon  the  ground. 

Transform'd  to  breathing  statues,  all  around 
The  nobles  sat,  nor  wist  they  wbat  to  dread  ; 

But  every  sense  by  hand  unseen  was  bound, 
On  every  valiant  heart  was  chillness  shed. 
^As  to  that  wild  had  come  a  message  from  the  dead. 

35. 

At  length  to  Scotland's  Monarch  rose  his  look, 
On  whom  he  beckon'd  with  commanding  mien. 


136  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 

With  manner  that  denial  would  not  brook, 
Then  gliding  forth  he  pausedupon  the  green. 
What  the  mysterious  messenger  could  mean 

No  one  would  risk  conjecture  ;  all  were  still. 
In  converse  close,  the  two  were  lingering  seen 

Across  the  lea,  and  down  beside  the  rill. 

Then  seem'dto  vanish  both  in  shadow  of  the  hill.. 


36. 

And  never  more  was  seen  the  royal  face 

By  Athol  forest  or  the  links  of  Dee  ; 
Oh  why  should  haughtv  worm  of  human  race 

Presume  to  question  Heaven's  supremacy; 

Or  trow  his  God,  alike  unmoved,  can  see 
To  death  exposed  the  monarch  and  the  clown  ; 

That  night  was  done  by  the  supreme  decree, 
A  deed  that  story  scarce  may  dare  to  own  ; 
B}'  what  unearthly  hand,  to  all  mankind  unknown. 

37. 
At  midnight,  strange  disturbing  sounds  awoke 

The  drowsy  slumberers  on  the  tented  heath. 
It  wos  no  blast,  that  on  the  mountain  broke  ! 

Nor  bolised  thunder  wrapt  in  sable  wrath  ! 

Yet  were  they  listening,  with  suspended  breaiij 
To  hear  the  rushing  tumult  once  again  : 

It  seemed  to  all  the  passing  sounds  of  death, 
Or  angry  spirits  of  the  mountain  reign. 
Combined  at  midnight  deep  to  clear  their  wild  do- 
main. 


I  HE   HUNTING.  137 

38. 
>i\  gallant  yeomen  rose,  and,  hand  to  hand, 
Set  forth  the  bothy's  wild  recess  to  gain  ; 
Despising  fate,  and  monarch's  strict  command,. 
That  all  should  quiet  at  the  tents  remain  : 
They  harbour'd  fears  that  tongue  could  not  ex- 
plain. 
Darkling  and  silent,  midway  on  they  past, 

When  power  unseen  tlieir  passage  did  restrain  ; 
Each  onward  step  they  deem'd  would  be  their  last, 
And  backward  traced  their  path,   unboastful  and 
a^^hast. 


39. 
The  morning  came,  in  pall  of  sackcloth  veil'd. 

The  cliffs  of  Dee  a  sable  vestment  bound  : 
Then  every  squire  and  yeoman's  spirit  faiFd, 

As    slow   approached    a  maim'd   and    bleeding 
hound. 

Sad  herald  of  the  dead  !  his  every  wound 
Bespoke  the  desolation  that  was  wrought ! — 

Oh  ne'er  may  scene  in  Scottish  glen  be  found 
With  wonder,  wo,  and  death  so  fully  fraught ! 
So  far  beyond  the  pale  of  bounded  mortal  thought ! 

40. 
No  knight  walk'd  forth  to  taste  the  morning  air, 

The  bugle's  echo  slept  within  the  hill ! 
And — Oh  the  blasting  truth  ! — no  cot  was  there  I 

No  !  not  a  vestige  stood  beside  the  rill  ! 

Though  trace  of  clement,  or  human  skill, 


138  MADOR   OF   THE   BrOOR. 

Tn  all  the  fatal  glen  could  not  bft  found, 

The  ghastly  forms,  in  prostrate  guise  and  stili. 
Knight,  page,  and  hound,  lay  scattered  far  arouu' 
Deform'd  by  many  a  stain,   and   deep   unseenil 
wound. 

41. 

The  king  was  sought  by  many  an  anxious  eye 
iVo  king  was   there ! — Well  might   the  wonde 
grow  ! 

They  rode — they  search'd  the  land  afar  and  nigh- 
He  was  not  found,  nor  learned  the  tale  of  wo  '.-- 
Hast  thou  not  mark'd  a  lonely  spot  and  low; 

Where  Moulin  opes  her  bosom  to  the  day, 

O'er  which  the  willow  weeps  and  birches  bloA\ 

Where  nine  rude  stones  erect  their  frontlets  gray 

There  the  blasphemers   lie,  slain   in  mysteri'  > 
way. 

42. 

When  nine  long  days  were  past,  and  all  was  o'er 
When  round  his   nobles   slain   had   closed  th 
mould, 

The  king  return'd  to  Scotland's  court  once  more. 
And  wonder'd  at  the  tale  his  huntsmen  told  t 
His  speech  revolted,  and  his  blood  ran  cold. 

As  low  he  kneel'd  at  good  Saint  Bothan's  shrine. 
Where  he  had  been  no  tongue  did  e'er  unfold.- 

List  to  my  tale  ! — if  thou  can'st  naught  divine, 

A  slow  raisfashion'd  mind,  a  moody  soul  is  thine 


MA  DOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 

CANTO  II. 

THE  MINSTREL. 

ARUGMENT. 

There  cam  a  fiddler  here  to  play, 
And  O  but  he  was  gimp  an'  gay ; 
He  staw  the  lassie's  heart  away, 
An'  made  it  a'  his  ain  O, 

I  For  weel  he  kend  the  way  O,  the  way  O,  the  way  O, 
'Weel  he  kend  the  way  O;  the  lassie's  love  to  gain  O. 


6* 


MA  DOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 


CANTO  II 


THE  MINSTREL. 

1. 
THAT  time  there  lived  ui>on  the  banks  of  Tay 

A  man  of  right  ungainly  courtesy  ; 
Yet  be  was  aident  in  his  froward  way. 

And  honest  as  a  Highlander  may  be. 

He  was  not  a  man  of  rank  nor  mean  degree,. 
And  loved  his  spouse,  and  child,  as  such  became 

Yet  oft  would  fret;  and  wrangle  irefully, 
Fastening  on  them  of  every  ill  the  blame, 
Nor  list  the  loud  defence  of  his  unyielding  dame. 

2, 

Slie  was  unweeting,  plump,  and  fair  to  see  ; 
Dreadless  of  ills  she  ne'er  before  had  seen  ; 

Full  of  blnhe  jollLment  and  boisterous  glee  ; 
Yet  was  her  home  not  well  bedight  or  clean  : 
For.  like  the  most  of  all  her  sex,  I  ween. 


142  MADOR  OF   THE   MOOK. 

Much  she  devised,  but  little  did  conclude  , 

Much  toil  was  lost,  as  if  it  ne'er  had  been. 
Her  tongue   was   fraught   with  matter  wondrou-; 

crude, 
And,  in  her  own  defence  most  voluble  and  loud. 

3. 
But  Oh  the  lovely  May,*  their  only  child. 

Was  sweeter  than  the  flower  that  scents  the  gale  ! 
Her  lightsome  form,  and  look  so  soothing  mild. 

The  loftiest  minstrel  song  would  much  avale  ; 

And  she  was  cheerful,  forwardsome  and  hale  ; 
And  she  could  work  the  rich  embroidery, 

Or  with  her  maidens  bear  the  milking  pail ; 
Yet,  dight  at  behane  reel,  you  could  espy 
No  lady  in  the  land  who  with  this  3Iay  could  vie. 

4. 

And  many  ayounker  sigh'd  her  love  to  gain  ; 

Her  steps  were  haunted  at  the  bught  and   penn  •. 
But  all  their  prayers  and  vows  of  love  were  vain, 

Her  choice  was  fix'd  on  Albert  of  the  Glen  : 

No  youth  was  he,  nor  winsomest  of  men,  , 
For  he  was  proud,  and  full  of  envy's  gall : 

But  v/hat  was  lovlier  to  the  damsel's  ken, 
He  had  wide  lands,  and  servants  at  his  call ; 
Her  sire  was  liegeman  bound,  and  held  of  him  his 
all. 


*  A  May  in  old  Scottish  ballads  and  romances, 
denotes  a  young  lady,  or  a  maiden  somewhat  above 
the  lower  class. 


THE   MI.N'STREL.  143 

5. 

The  beauteous  May,  to  parents'  will  resign'tl. 
Opposed  not  that  which  boded   nothing  ill ; 

It  gave  an  ease  and  freedom  to  her  mind, 
And  wish,  the  anxious  interval  to  kill  : 
She  listed  wooer's  tale  with  right  good  will; 

And  she  would  jest,  and  amile,  and  heave  the  sigh, 
Would  torture  whining  youth  with  wicked  skill, 

Turn  on  her  heel,  then  off  like  lightning  fly, 

Leaving  the  hapless  wight  resolved  forthwith  to 
die, 

6. 

The  rainbow's  lovely  in  the  eastern  cloud  ; 

The  rose  is  beauteous  on  the  bended  thorn  : 
Sweet  is  tiie  evening  ray  from  purple  shroud. 

And  sweet  the  orient  blushes  of  the  morn  ; 

Sweeter  than  all,  the  beauties  which  adorn 
The  female  form  in  youth  and  maiden  bloom  ! 

Oh  why  should  passion  ever  man  suborn 
To  work  the  sweetest  flower  of  Nature's  doom, 
And  cast  o'er  all  her  joys  a  veil  of  cheerless  gloom. 

7. 
Oh  fragile  flower  !  that  blossoms  but  to  fade  ! 

One  slip  recovery  or  recall  defies  ! 
Thou  walk'st  the  dizzy  verge  with  steps  unstaid. 

Fair  as  the  habitants  of  yonder  skies  ! 

Like  them,  thou  fallest  never  more  to  rise  I 
Oh  fragile  flower  !  for  thee  my  heart's  in  pain  ; 

Haply  a  world  is  hid  from  mortal  eyes,, 


141  MADOR   OF   THE    MOOR. 

Where  thou  may'st  smile  in  purity  again, 

And  shine  in  virgin  bloom,  that  ever  shall  remain. 


The  twentieth  spring  had  breathed  upon  the  flower. 

Nor  had  that  flower  pass'd  with  the  year  away, 
Since  first  the  infant  bloom  of  Ila  Moore, 
The  flower  of  Athol,  open'd  to  the  day. 
Kincraigy  was  her  home,  that  o'er  the  Tay 
A  prospect  held  of  Nature's  fairest  scene  : — 
Far  mountains  mixing  with  aerial  gray. 
Low  golden-vested  valleys  stretched  between, 
And  far  below  the  eye,  broad  flood  and  islet  greeu. 

9. 
The  day  was  wet,  the  mist  was  on  the  moor, 

Rested  from  labour  husbandman  and  maid; 
There  came  a  stranger  to  Kincraigy's  door, 

Of  goodly  form,  in  minstrel  garb  array 'd  ; 

Of  braided  silk  his  builziment  was  made ; 
Short  the  entreatance  he  required  to  stay  ; 

He  tuned  his  viol,  and  with  veh'mence  play'd  ; 
Mistress  and  menial,  maid  and  matron  gray. 
Soon  mix'd  were  on  the  floor,  and  frisked  in  wild 
affray. 

10. 

The  Minstrel  strain'd  and  twisted  sore  hie  face. 
Beat  with  his  heel,  and  twinkled  with  his  eye, 

But  still,  at  every  effort  and  grimace. 
Louder  and  quicker  rush'd  the  melody : 


THE   MINSTREL.  145 

The  dancers  round  the  room  in  mazes  fly. 
VV^ith  cheering  whoop,  and  wheel,  and  caper  wild,. 

The  jolly  dame  did  well  her  mettle  ply  : 
Even  old  Kincraigy,  of  his  spleen  beguiled, 
Turn'd  his  dark  brow  aside,  soften'd  his  looks  and 
smiled. 

11. 
When  supper  on  the  ashen  board  was  set, 

The  minstrel,  all  unask'd,  jocosely  came, 
Brought  his  old  chair,  and,  without  pause  or  let, 

Placed  it  betwixt  the  maid  and  forthright  dame. 

They  smiled  and  ask'd  his  lineage  and  his  name,. 
"Twas  Mador-of  the  Moor,  a  name  renown'd  : 

A  kindred  name  with  theirs,  well  known  to  fame, 
A  high-born  name  ;  but  old  Kincraigy  frown'd, 
Such  impudence  in  man,  he  ween'd  had  not  been 
found. 

1.6. 

The  last  red  embers  on  the  hearth  were  spread, 
But  Mador  still  his  antick  tricks  pursued  ; 

The  doors  were  closed,  and  all  were  bound  to  bed. 
When  spite  of  old  Kincraigy's  angry  mood, 
The  frantic  hurlyburly  was  renew'd  : 

His  tongue   grew  mute,  his  face  o'erspread   with 
gloom  ; 
Wild  uproar  raged  resistless,  unsubdued  ; 

The  younkers  of  the  hamlet  crowd  the  room, 

And  Mador 's  viol  squeaks,  with  rough  and  raging 
boom. 


146  MADOR  OF    THE    MOOR. 

13. 

The  dire  misrule  Kincraigy  could  not  brook 

He  saw  distinction  lost,  and  order  spurn'd  ; 
And  much  displeased  that  his  offended  look 

Was  all  unminded,  high  his  anger  burn'd. 

Upon  the  rocket  Minstrel  dark  he  turn'd, 
And  ask'd  to  whom  such  strains  he  wont  to  play  ? 

Oh;  he  had  play'd  to  nobles  now  inurn'd, 
And  he  had  play'd  in  countries  far  away, 
And  to  the   gallant  king  that  o'er  them  held   the 
sway. 

14. 
•  Ay,'"'  said  Kincraigy,  with  malignant  scowl, 

Stroking  his  beard  and  writhing  down  his  brow 
'■'  I've  heard  our  monarch  was  an  arrant  fool, 
I  ween'd  it  so,  but  knew  it  not  till  now. 

But  'tis  enough  ; — his  choice  of  such  as  you — 
Great  heaven,  to  man  what  inconsistence  clings, 

To  meanest  of  the  species  doom'd  to  bow  ! 
Had  I  one  day  o'er  all  created  things, 
The   world  should  once  be  clear'd  of  fiddlers  and 
of  kings." 

15. 
-Tvvas  a  hard  jest;  but  Mador  laugh'dit  bye  ; 

Across  the  strings  his  careless  fingers  stray'd, 
Till  staunch  Kincraigy,  with  unalter'd  eye, 

Ask'd  how,  or  where,  he  learn'd  the  scraping 

trade  ? 
When  those  new  jars  to  music  caaie  allayed  ? 
And  how  it  happ'd  he  in  the  line  h^d  thriven  ? 


THE   MINSTREL.  147 

For  sure,  of  all  the  fiddlers  ever  play'd, 
Never  was  bow  by  such  a  novice  driven, 
Never  were  human  ears  by  such  discordance  ri- 
ven. 

16. 

Go  tell  the  monarch  of  his  feelings  cold  ; 

Go  tell  the  prince  that  he  is  lewd  and  vain  ; 
Go  tell  the  wrinkled  maid  that  she  is  old, 

The  wretched  miser  of  his  ill-got  gain  ; 

But  Oh,  in  human  kindness  spare  the  pain 
That  conscious  excellence  abased  must  feel ; 

It  proves  to  wounded  pride  the  deadliest  bane^ 
The  judgment  it  arraigns,  and  stamps  the  seal 
Of /bo/  with  burning  brand,  wich  blood  alone  cau 
heal. 

17. 

The  earliest  winter  hues  of  old  Cairn-Gorm, 

Schehallion  when  the  clouds  begin  to  lour, 
Even  the  wan  face  of  heaven  before  the  storm, 

Look'd  ne'er  so  stern  as  Mador  of  the  Moor. 

Most  cutting  sharp  was  his  retort  and  sour, 
And  in  offensive  guise  his  bow  he  drew. 

Kincraigy  redden'd,  stepp'd  across  the  floor, 
Lifted  his  staff,  and  back  indignant  flew 
To  scathe  the  Minstrel's  pate,  and  baste  him  black 
and  blue. 

18. 
Had  those  to  Mador  known  in  royal  hall. 
For  well  I  ween  he  was  not  stranger  there, i 


148  MADOR  OF    THE    MOOR. 

Beheld  him  crouching  'gainst  that  smoky  wall; 
His  precious  violin  heaved  high  in  air, 
As  guardian  shield,  the  ireful  blow  to  bear  ; 

The  blowzy  dame  holding  with  all  her  might 
An  interceding  maid  so  lovely  fair  ; 

Matron  and  peasant  gaping  with  affright — 

Oh,  'twas  a  scene  of  life  might  charm  an  anclio- 
rite  ! 

19. 

Tvvas  not  the  fluster'd  dame's  inept  rebuke, 

"Twas  not  the  cowering  Minstrel's  perilous  state, 
'Twas  beauteous  Ila  Moore's  reproving  look 

That   quell'd   her    sire,   and  barr'd  the  work  of 
fate  : 

With  smile  serene  she  led  him  to  his  seat, 
Sat  by  his  knee,  and  bade  the  minstrel  play. 

No  word  was  heard  of  anger  or  debate, 
So  much  may  woman's  eye  our  passions  sway  I 
When  beauty  gives  command,  all  mankind   must 
obey  ! 

20. 
The  wearied  peasants  to  their  rest  retire  ; 

Kincraigy  bows  to  sleep's  resistless  call  : 
But  the  kind  dame  stirr'd  up  the  sluggish  fire, 

And  with  the  minstrel  long  outsat  them  all ; 

He  praised  her  much,  her  order,  and  her  hall  :— 
Her  manners.,  far  above  her  rank  and  place  I 

Her  daughter's  beauteous  form,  so  comely  tall ; 
The  peerless  charms  of  her  bewitching  face, 
So  well  befitting  court,  or  nobles  hall  to  grace.     . 


THE   MINSTREL.  t-l'J 

?!. 

^V"ell  may'st  thou  trust  the  chicken  with  the  dam  ; 
The  eaglet  in  her  parent's  home  subhme  ; 
The  yeaning-  ewe  with  the  poor  starveHng  lamb, 
Nor  is  a  son's  default  a  mother's  crime  : 
But  a  fair  only  daughter  in  her  prime, 

!)h,  never  trust  to  mother's  wistful  care  ! 
The  heart's  too  anxious  of  her  darling's  time  : 

Foo  well  she  loves — too  well  she  is  aware 

n  what   the   maid  delights,  nor  sees  the  lurking 
snare. 

22. 
Uoft  was  framed  the  Minstrel's  humble  bed 

Of  the  gi-een  braken  and  the  yielding  heath, 
kVith  coverlet  of  dowlas  o'er  it  spread  ;  — 

That  too  he  lauded  with  obsequious  breath. 

But  he  was  out,  and  in — above — beneath, 
jnhinging  doors,  and  groping  in  the  dark  ; 

The  hamlet  matrons  dread  unearthly  scathe  : 
rhe  maidens  hide  their  heads,  the  watch-dogs  bark,, 
ind  all  was  noise  and  fright  till  matin  of  the  lark. 

23. 
Vext  day  the  wind  from  eastern  oceans  drove 

The  drizzly  sea-rack  up  the  Athol  plain, 
\.nd  o'er  the  woodland  and  the  welkin  wove 

A  moving  mantle  of  the  fleecy  rain  : 

The  cottagers  from  labour  still  refrain  ; 
^Vell  by  the  lowly  window  could  they  spy 

The  droplets  from  the  thatch  descend  amaui 


150  MADOPv   OF   THE   MOOR.~ 

While  round  the  hearth  they  closed  with  cheerful 

eye, 
Resolved,  on  better  days,  with  all  their  might  to 

ply. 

24. 
Though  many  hints,  to  make  the  minstrel  budge, 

Were  by  Kincraigy  thrown,  they  were  in  vain  ; 
He  ask'd  him  where  that  night  he  meant  to  lodge  ?'  • 

And  when  he  purposed  calling  there  again  ? 

He  could  not  stir  ; — the  hateful  driving  rain 
Would  all  his  valued  tuneful  cords  undo. 

The  dame  reproach'd  her  husband's  surly  strain. 
Welcomed  the  Minstrel's  stay,  and  'gan  to  show 
Her  excellence  in  song,  and  skill  in  music  too. 

2.5. 
Wo  to  the  hapless  wight,  self-doom'd  to  see 

His  measures  warp'd  by  woman's  weak  control! 
Wo  to  the  man,  whate'er  his  wealth  may  be, 

Condemn'd  to  prove  the  everlasting  growl. 

The  fret,  the  plaint,  the  babble,  and  the  scowl! 
Yet  such  outnumber  all  the  stars  above  ! 

When  sponsal'd  pairs  run  counter  soul  to  soul, 
Oh  there's  an  end  to  all  the  sweets  of  love ! 
That  ray  of  heavenly  bliss,  which  reason  should  1 
improve. 

26. 

The  dance  and  song  prevail'd  till  fell  the  night ; 
The  Minstrel's  forward  ease  advanced  apace ; 


THE  MINSTREL.  liil 

He  kiss'd  their  lovely  May  before  their  sight, 
Who  struggled,  smiling,  from  the  rude  embrace; 
And  call'd  him  fiddler  Mador  to  his  face. 

Loud   laugh'd    the    dame,    while  old    Kincraigy 
frown'd  ; 
Her  fulsome  levity,  and  flippant  grace, 

Had  oft  inflicted  on  his  soul  the  wound, 

But  held  at  endless  bay,  redress  could  not  be  found. 

27. 
All  quietness  and  peace  our  Minstrel  spurns  ; 

Idle  confusion  through  the  hamlet  rings  ; 
He  teazes,  flatters,  and  cajoles  by  turns, 

And  to  the  winds  all  due  distinction  flings. 

From  his  rude  grasp  the  cottage  matron  spring?. 
The  giggling  maids  in  darksome  corners  hide  ; 

But  still  to  Ila  3Ioore  he  fondly  clings, 
Seeming  resolred,  whatever  might  betide, 
To  teaze  or  flatter  her,  and  all  reserve  deride. 

28. 
Next  day,  by  noon,  the  mountain's  misty  shroud 
The  bustling  spirits  of  the  air  updrew, 
And'  gan  to  open  in  the  boreal  cloud 

Their  marbled  windows  of  the  silvery  hue  ; 

Far  through  the  bores  appear'd  the  distant  blue 
Loud  sung  the  merl  upon  the  topmost  spray, 

The  harping  bleeter,  and  the  gray  curlew, 
High  in  the  air  chanted  incondite  lay  ; 
All  heralding  th'  approachment  of  a  beauteous  day. 


lo2  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOK. 

29. 

The  Minstral  to  the  forest  turn'd  his  eye, 

He  seem'd  regretful  that  the  rain  should  stay 
lie  seem'd  to  wish  the  mist  would  lingering  lye 

Still  on  the  bosom  of  the  moorland  gray. 

The  time  was  come  he  needs  must  wend  hi^ 
way, 
His  sovereign's  pleasure  might  his  presence  claiii' 

No  one  remain'd  to  row  him  o'er  the  Tay, 
Unless  the  blooming  May  or  cordial  dame. 
The  Tay  was  broad  and  deep — pray  was  the  mai' 
to  blame  ? 

30. 
Westward  they  past  by  bank  and  greenwood  sid 

A  varied  scene  it  was  of  wondrous  guise ; 
Below  them  parting  rivers  smoothly  glide. 

And  far  above  their  heads  aspiring  rise 

Gray  crested  rocks,  the  columns  of  the  skies, 
While  little  lowly  dells  lay  hid  between  ; 

It  seem'd  a  fairy  land  !  a  paradise  ; 
Where  every  bloom  that  scents  the  woodland  grec  r 
Open'd  to  heaven  its  breast  by  human  eye  unseen- 

31. 

Queen  of  the  forest,  there  the  birch  tree  swung 
Her  light  green  locks  aslant  the  southern  breeze 

Red  berries  of  the  brake  aroxmd  them  hung ; 
A  thousand  songsters  warbled  on  the  trees  : 
A  scene  it  was  befitting  youth  to  please. 

Too  well  it  pleased  ;  as  reverend  legions  say! 
Unmark'd  the  hour  o'er  lovers'  head  that  flees  ' 


THE  3IIXSTREL.  153 

'Twas  but  one  little  mile  ; — a  summer  day  ! 
And  when  the  sun   went  down  they  scarce  had 
reach'd  the  Tay  ! 

32. 

Oh,  read  not,  lovers  I — sure  you  may  not  think 
That  Ila  Moore  by  minstrel  airs  was  won '. 

'Twas  nature's  cordial  glow,  the  kindred  link 
That  all  unweeting  chains  two  hearts  in  one  1 — 
Then  why  should  mankind  ween  ihe   maid  un- 
done, 

Though  with  her  youth  she  seek  the  woodland 
deep. 
Rest  in  a  bower  to  view  the  parting  sun, 

Lean  on  his  breast  at  tale  of  wo  to  weep. 

Or  sweetly,  on  his  arm,  recline  in  mimic  sleep  r 

33. 
Oh,  I  have  seen,  and  fondly  blest  the  sight, 

The  peerless  charms  of  maiden's  guileful  freak  ' 
Through  the  dark  eye-lash  peep  the  orb  so  bright  ; 
The  wily  features  so  demurely  meek  ; 
The  smile  of  love  half  dimpling  on  the  cheek  ; 
The  quaking  breast  that  heaves  the  sigh  withal ! 
The  parting    lips  which  more  than   language 
speak  I — 
Of  fond  delights,  which  memory  can  recall, 
Oh,  beauty's  feigned   sleep,  far,  far  outdoes   then^ 
all  1 

34. 

O'er  such  a  sleep  the  enamour'd  Minstrel  hung, 
Stole  one  soft  kiss,  but  still  she  sounder  fell  I 


154  MADOR  OF   THE   MOOR, 

The  half-formed  sentence  died  upon  her  tongue  , 
'Twas  through  her  sleep  she  spoke  ! — Pray  was 

it  well; 
Molesting  helpless  maiden  in  the  dell, 

On  sweet  restoring  slumber  so  intent? 
Our  Minstrel  framed  resolve  I  joy  to  tell ; 

'Twas  not  to  harm  that  beauteous  innocent. 

For  no  delight,  nor  joy,  that  fancy  might  present. 

35. 
When  at  the  ferry,  silent  long  they  stood, 

And  eyed  the  red-beam  on  the  pool  that  lay, 
Or  baseless  shadow  of  the  waving  wood. — 

That  lonely  spot  upon  the  banks  of  Tay, 

Still  bears  the  maiden's  name,  and  shall  for  aye. 
Warm  was  the  parting  sigh  their  bosoms  drew  ! 

For  sure,  the  joys  of  that  enchanting  day, 
Twas  worth  an  age  of  sorrow  to  renew, 
Then,  glancing  oft  behind,  they  sped  along  the  dew. 

36. 
Oft  did  Kincraigy's  wayward  humour  keep 

The  hamlet  and  the  hall  in  teazing  broil ; 
But  his  reproaches  never  cut  so  deep 

As  when,  that  eve,  he  ceased  his  rural  toil  : 

He  learn'd  the  truth,  and  raised   such  grievous: 
coil. 
That  even  the  dame  in  rage  gave  up  defence  : 

The  lovely  cause  of  all  the  wild  turmoil 
Sat  in  a  corner,  grieved  for  her  offence, 
Offering  no  urgent  plea,  nor  any  false  pretence. 


THE    MINSTREL.  [155 

37. 

W  hen  summer  suns  around  the  zenith  glow, 
Nature  is  gaudy,  frolicsome,  and  boon  • 

But  when  September  breezes  cease  to  blow, 
And  twilight  steals  beneath  the  broaden'd  moon, 
How  changed  the  scene  ! — the  year's  resplendent 
noon, 

Is  long  gone  past,  and  all  is  mildly  still 
Sedateness  settles  on  the  dale  and  doon  e 

Wan  is  the  flow'ret  by  the  mountain  rill, 

And  a  pale  boding  look  sits  solemn  on  the  hi 

38. 
More  changed  than  all  the  mien  of  Ila  Moore  ! 
Scarce  could  you  trow  the  self-same  soul  within ; 
The  buxom  lass  that  loved  the  revel  hour, 
That  laugh'd  at  all,  and  grieved  for  naught  but 

sin. 
Steals  from  her  darling  frolic,  jest,  and  din, 
And  sits  alone  beneath  the  fading  tree  : 

Upon  her  bosom  leans  her  dimpled  chin  ; 
Her  moisten'd  eye  fix'd  moveless  on  the  lea. 
Or  vagrant  tiny  moth  that  sojourn'd  on  her  kjiae. 

39. 
Her  songs,  that  erst  did  scarcely  maid  become, 

So  framed  they  were  of  blandishment  and  jest, 
Were  changed  into  a  soft  unmeaning  huoa, 

A  sickly  melody,  yet  unpspress'd. 

At  tale  of  pity  throbb'd  her  ardent  breast ; 
The  tear  was  ready  for  pishap  or  joy ! 

Vol.  n.— 7 


156  MA  DOR  OF   THE   MOOR. 

And  well  she  loved  in  evening  grove  to  rest, 
To  tender  Heaven  her  vow  without  annoy. 
Indulging  secret  thought—a  thought  that  did  n^ 
cloy. 

40. 
The  dame  perceived  the  maiden's  alter'd  mood ; 

A  dame  of  keen  distinguishment  was  she  ! 
And    oh,    her    measures    were    most    wondroi 
shrew'd  ! 
And  deeply  schemed,  as  woman's  needs  must  h 
Though  all  the  world  with  little  toil  could  see 
Her  latent  purposes  from  first  to  last. 

An  ancient  friar,  who  shrived  the  family, 
She  call'd  into  her  chamber — barr'd  it  fast, 
That  listener  might  not  hear  th'  important  wor 
that  past. 

41. 
''  Father,  you  mark'd  the  gallant  minstrel  youth 

Who  lately  to  the  forest  past  this  way  ; 
I  ween,  he  proffer  made  of  hand  and  troth 

To  our  own  child,  and  hardly  would  take  nav 

Put  on  thy  humble  cowl  and  frock  of  gray  ; 
Thy  order  and  array  thy  warrant  be. 

And  watch  the  royal  tent  at  close  of  day, 
It  stands  in  glen,  below  the  wells  of  Dee, 
Note  all  entreatment  there,  and  bring  the  truth 


42. 

Young  Mador  of  the  Moor,  thou  know'st  him  w( 
Mark  thou  what  rank  he  holds,  and  mark  arig'i 


THE   MINSTREL.  157 

If  with  the  squires  or  vulgar  gBDonas  he  dwell, 
If  in  the  outer  tent  he  sleeps  by  night, 
Regard  him  not,  nor  wait  the  morning  light ; 

But  if  with  royalty  or  knighthood  set, 
Beckon  him  forth,  in  seeming  serious  plight. 

And  say,  what  most  will  his  impatience  whet. 

That  for  his  sake  some  cheeks  are  ever,  ever  wet ;'' 

43. 
Next  morn,  while  yet  the  eastern  mountains  threw 

Their  giant  shadows  o'er  the  slumbering  dale, 
Their  darken'd  verges  trembling  on  the  dew 

In  rosy  wreath,  so  lovely  and  so  pale, 

The  warp'd  and  slender  rainbow  of  the  vale  ! 
Ere  beauteous  Ila's  foot  had  prest  the  floor. 

Or  her  cheek  had  kiss'd  the  morning  gale, 
A  lively  rap  came  to  Kincraigy's  door — 
There  stood  the  active  friar,  and  Mador  of  the  M«or- 

44. 
Well  knew  the  dame  this  speed  betoken'd  good  ! 

But  when  she  leam'd  that  Mador  consort  held 
With  majesty  and  knights  of  noblest  blood, 

One  of  the  select  number  in  the  field. 
Her  courtesy  no  blandishment  withheld. 
Fair  Ila  trembled  like  the  aspin  bough, 

She  dreaded  passions  guidelessly  impell'd  — 
Twas  what  of  all  the  world  she  wish'd  ;  yet  now 
A  weight  her  heart  oppress'd,  she  felt  she  wist  not 
how ! 

45. 
Kincraigy  growl'd  like  hunted  wolf  at  bay, 
\nd  in  his  fields  from  outrage  sought  relief; 


153  MADOR  OF  THE  MOORf 

No  burning  fiend,  whom  convent  wights  gainsa} 
No  ruthless  abbey  reave,  nor  Ranoch  thief, 
Did  ever  work  him  such  chagrin  and  grief 

As  did  the  minstrel's  smooth  obtrusive  face. 
Albert  of  Glen,  his  kind  but  haughty  chief, 

He  saw  exposed  to  infamous  disgrace^ 

Himself  to  loss  of  name,  of  honour,  and  of  pla 

46. 
His  rage  avail'd  not — each  reflective  hint 

Was  treated  by  his  knowing  dame  with  scorn 
Whose  every  word,  and  every  action,  went 

To  show  him  his  discernment  was  forlorn. 

He  knew  no  more  of  life  than  babe  unborn  ! 
'Twas  well  some  could  distinguish  who  was  wh' 

Kincraigy's  years  were  cumber'd  and  outworn 
In  manful  strife  his  mastery  to  show, 
Though  forced  on  every  point  his  privilege  to  foreg 

47. 
The  Minstrel's  table  was  with  viands  spread, 

His  cup  was  fill'd  though  all  the  rest  were  dry 
Not  on  the  floor  was  made  the  Minstrel's  bed, 

He  got  the  best  Kincraigy  could  supply; 

While  every  day  the  former  did  outvie 
In  idle  frolic  round  Kincraigy's  hall  : 

His  frugal  meal  is  changed  to  luxury  ; 
His  oxen  low  unnoted  in  the  stall ; 
Loud  revelry  pervades,  and  lords  it  over  all. 

48. 
The  blooming  May,  from  his  first  fond  embrace, 
Shrunk  pale  and  salJen^  as  from  insult  high; 


THE  MIKSTREL.  15D 

k  nameless  dread  was  settled  on  her  face  ; 
[    She  fear'd  the  Minstrel,  yet  she  knew  not  why. 
That  previous  night,  when  closed  was  every  eye, 
{)h  she  had  dream'd  of  grievous  scenes  to  be  ; 
':    And  she  had  heard  a  little  plaintive  cry  ; 
l^nd  she  had  sung  beneath  the  willow  tree, 
'  Vnd  seen  a  rueful  sight,  unfitting  maid  to  see  ; 

j  49. 

I  Jut  when  he  told  her  of  his  fix'd  resolve, 
\    That,  should  they  not  in  wedlock  ties  be  bound, 
le  never  would  that  loving  breast  involve 
I    In  rankling  crime,  nor  pierce  it  with  a  wound, — 

It  was  so  generous  :  she  no  longer  frown'd, 
iiut  sighing  sunk  upon  his  manly  breast. 
'    Sweet  tender  sex!  with  snares  encompass'd  round  ' 
I  )n  others  hang  thy  comforts  and  thy  rest ! 
[>hild  of  dependence  born,  and  failings  unconfest  I 

I 

jU  eve,  they  lean'd  upon  the  flowry  sward, 
'■    On  fairy  mound  that  overlooks  the  Tay; 
And  in  the  greenwood  bowers  of  sweet  Kinnaird 
I    They  sought  a  refuge  from  the  noontide  ray  : 

In  bowers  that  scarce  receive  the  light  of  day, 
L^ar,  far  below  a  rock's  stupendous  pile, 
;    In  raptures  of  the  purest  love  they  lay, 
'irVhile  tender  tale  would  intervals  beguile — 
kVo  to  the  venal  friar,  won  to  religious  wile 

51. 

f  pure  and  full  terrestial  bliss  may  be, 
'    And  human  imperfection  that  enjoy, 


166  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 

Those  twain,  beneath  the  deep  embowering  tree. 

Bathe  in  that  perfect  bliss  without  alloy. 

But  passion's  flame  will  passion's  self  destroy. 
Such  imperfections  round  our  nature  lour; 

No  blis  is  ours,  that  others  mayn't  annoy. 
So  happ'd  it  to  Kincraigy's  beauteous  flower, 
And  eke   her   gay    gallant,  young  Mador  of  t 
Moor. 

52. 
Albert  of  Glen,  o'er  his  betrothed  bride, 

Kept  jealous  eye,  and  oft  unnoted  came; 
He  saw  the  Minstrel  ever  by  her  side, 

And  how  his  presence  flush'd  the  bustling  dame/ 

Enraged  at  such  a  fond  ungrateful  flame, 
One  eve  he  caught  them  lock'  in  fond  embrace  ; 

And,  bent  his  amorous  rival'    pride  to  tame, 
Began  with  sandal'd  foot,  and  heavy  mace, 
To  work  the  Minstrel  wo,  and  very  deep  disgrace. 

53. 

Few  and  unpolish'd  were  the  words  that  past , 
Hard  was  the  struggle  and  infuriate  grasp ! 

But  Mador  of  the  Moor,  o'erborne  at  last. 
Beneath  his  rival's  frame  began  to  gasp  : 
His  slender  nape  was  lock'd  in  keyless  hasp  : 

A  maid's  exertion  saved  him  as  before  : 
Her  willing  fingers  made  the  hands  unclasp 

That  soon  had   still'd  the    struggling    Minsterl's 
core — 

He  ne'er  had  flatter'd  dame,  nor  courted  maiden 
more. 


THE  MINSTREL.  161 

54. 

iie  swords  were  drawn,  but  neither  jeer  nor  threat 

Could  drive  the  fearless  maiden  from  between", 
^.irain  her  firranes-s  quell'd  the  Hire  debate, 

And  drove  the  ruffian  from  their  bower  of  green. 

But  ffrirn  and  resolute  revenue  was  seen 
[n  liis  dark  eye  as  furious  he  withdrew  : 

And  Mador  of  the  Moor,  his  life  to  skreen, 
Escaped  by  night,  through  shades  of  murky  hue  : 
The  maiden  deem'd  it  meet,  for  Albert  well  she 
knew. 


And  well  it  proved  for  him  ! — At  woman's  schemes 
And  deep-laid  policy  the  jeer  is  due  : 

But  for  resource,  and  courage  in  extremes, 
For  prompt  expedient,  and  affection  true, 
Distrust  her  not — ev'n   through  her  means  are 
few, 

She  will  defeat  the  utmost  powers  of  man  ; 
In  strait,  she  never  yet  distinction  drew 

'Twixt  right  and  wrong,  nor  squeamishly  began 

To  calculate,  or  weigh,  save  how  to  gain  her  plan, 

56. 

Albert  of  Glen,  with  twenty  warriors  came, 
Beset  Kincraigy's  hall,  and  search'd  it  through  ; 

Like  the  chafed  ocean  storm'd  the  fluster'd  dame, 
Of  Mador '3  hasty  flight  she  did  not  know. 
Kincraigy  hoped  they  would  the  wight  undo; 


162  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR, 

In  hifl  malicious  grin  was  joyance  seen. 

Albert  is  baulk'd  of  sweet  revenge,  and  now 
Blazes  outright  a  chieftain's  smother'd  spleen  , 
And  Mador's  lost  and  gone,  as  if  he  ne'er  had  bee; 


MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR 

CANTO  III. 
THE  COTTAGE. 

ARGUMENT. 

0  waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonny> 
A  little  while  when  it  is  new ! 

But  when  'tis  old  it  waxes  cold, 
An'  fades  away  like  morning  dew. 

But  had  I  wist  before  I  kiss'd, 
That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win, 

1  had  lock'd  my  heart  in  a  case  o'  goud. 

An'  pinn'd  it  wi'  a  siller  pin. 


MADOR  OB"  THE  MOOR. 


CAN'TO    III. 


THE  COTTAGE 


WPIAT  art  thou,  Love  ?  or  who  may  thee  define  ? 
Where  lies  thy  bourn  of  pleasure  or  of  pain  ? 
No  sceptre,  graved  by  Reason's  hand  is  thine, 
Child  of  the  moisten'd  eye  and  burning  brain,. 
Of  glowing  fancy,  and  the  fervid  vein, 
That  soft  on  bed  of  roses  lov'st  to  rest, 
And  crop  the  flower  where  lurks  the  deadly  bane  I 
Ob,  many  a  thorn  those  dear  delights  invest, 
Child  of  the  rosy  cheek,  and  heaving  snow-white 
breast ! 

2. 
Thou  art  the  genial  balm  of  virtuous  youth, 
And  point'st  where  Honour  waves  her  wreath  r.i:. 
high  : 


166  3IAD0R   OF    THE    MOOR. 

Like  the  sweet  breeze  that  wanders  from  the  soutt 

Thou  breath'st  upon  the  soul,   where  embryc 
lie 

Of  new  delightS;  the  treasures  of  the  sky! 
Who  knows  thy  trembling  watch  in  bower  of  even, 

Thy  earliest  grateful  tear,  and  melting  sigh  ? 
Oh,  never  was  to  yearning  mortal  given 
So  dear  delights  as  thine,  thou  habitant  of  heaven  ! 

3. 
Wo  that  thy  regal  sway,  so  framed  to  please. 

Should  ever  from  usurper  meet  control ! 
That  ever  shrivell'd  wealth,  or  gray  disease, 

Should  mar  the  grateful  concord  of  the  soul  1 

That  bloated  sediment  of  crazing  bowl 
Should  crop  thy  blossoms  which  untasted  die  I 

Or  that  the  blistering  phrase  of  babbler  foul 
Should  e'er  profane  thy  altars  framed  to  lie 
Veil'd  from  all  heaven  and  earth,  save  silent  Fan 
cy's  eye ! 

4. 

Oh,  I  will  worship  even  before  thy  bust. 

When  my  dimm'd  eye  no  more  thy  smile  can  see  ' 
While  this  deserted  bosom  beats,  it  must 

Still  beat  in  unison  with  hope  and  thee  ! 

For  I  have  wept  o'er  perish'd  ecstasy, 
And  o'er  the  fall  of  beauty's  early  prime  I 

But  I  will  dream  of  new  delights  to  be, 
When  moon  and  stars  have  ceased  their  range  sub- 
lime 
Vnd  angels  rung  the  knell  of  all-consuming  Time 


THE    COTTAGE.  167 

5. 

Then  speed,  thou  great  coeval  of  the  sun  ; 

Thy  world  with  flowers  and  snows  alternate  sow . 
Long  has  thy  whelming  tide  resistless  run, 

And  swell'd  the  seas  of  wickedness  and  wo  ! 

While  moons  shall  wane,   and  mundane  oceans 
flow, 
To  count  the  hours  of  thy  dominion  o'er, 

The  dyes  of  human  guilt  shall  deeper  grow, 
And  millions  sink  to  see  thy  reign  no  more  ! 
Haste,  haste  thy  guilty  course  to  yon  eternal  shore  1 

6. 

Cease,  thou  wild  Muse,  thy  vague  unbodied  lay, 

What  boots  these  wanderings  from  thy  onward 
tale? 
I  know  thee  well !  when  once  thou  fliest  astray, 

To  lure  thee  back  no  soothing  can  avail. 

Thou  lovest  amid  the  burning  stars  to  sail, 
Or  sing  with  sea-maids  down  the  coral  deep  : 

The  groves  of  visionary  worlds  to  hail, 
In  moonlight  dells  thy  fairy  rites  to  keep, 
Or  through  the  wilderness  on  booming  pinion  sweep . 


Wilt  thou  not  stoop,  where  beauty  sits  forlorn. 
Trembling  at  symptoms  of  approaching  wo? 

Where  lovely  Ila,  by  the  aged  thorn, 
Notes  what   she  scarce  dare  trust  her  heart  to 

know  ? 
Mark  how  her  cheek's  new  roses  come  and  go — 

Has  Mador  dared  his  virtuous  vow  to  break  ? 


168  MADOR  OF    THE    MOOK. 

It  cannot  be  ! — we  may  not  deem  it  so ! 
vSpare  the  ungrateful  thought  for  mercy's  sake  I 
Alas!  man   still  is  man — and  woman! — ah!  [how 
weak  ! 


8. 

Why  do  the  maidens  of  the  strath  rejoice, 
And  lilt  with  meaning  gesture  on  the  loan  ? 

Why  do  they  smirk,  and  talk  with  giggling  voice 
Of  laces,  and  of  stays  ,  and  thereupon 
Hang  many  a  fruitful  jest  ? — Ah  !  is  there  none 

The  truth  to  pledge  and  prove  the  nuptial  vow  ? 
Alas  !  the  Friar  on  pilgrimage  is  gone  ; 

Mador  is  lost — none  else  the  secret  knew, 

And  all  is  deem'd  pretext  assumptive  and  untrue. 

9. 
Slander  prevails  !  to  woman's  longing  mind 

Sweet  as  the  April  blossom  to  the  bee  ; 
Her  meal  that  never  palls,  but  leaves  behind 

An  appetite  still  yearning  food  to  see  : 

Kincraigy's  dam^  of  perspicacity 
Sees  naught  at  all  amiss,  but  flounces  on  ; 

Her  brawhng  liuraour  shows  increased  to  be  : 
Much  does  she  speak,  in  loud  and  grumbling  tone, 
Nor  time  takes  to  reflect,  nor  even  a  prayer  to  con. 

10. 

The  injured  Albert  timely  sent  command 
That  pierced  Kincraigy  lothe  inmost  soul, 

To  drive  his  worthless  daughter  from  the  land, 
Or  forthwith  yield  of  goods  and  gear;  the  whole. 


THE    COTTAGE.  169 

Alternative  severe  ! — no  tale  of  dole 
I'he  chief  would  hear,  on  full  revenge  intent. 

The  good  sagacious  dame,  in  murmuring  growl. 
Proposed  to  drive  her  forth  incontinent, 
For  she  deserved  it  all,  and  Albert  might  relent. 


11. 

•'  She  is  to  blame,''  Kincraigy  made  reply, 
"  And  may  deserve  so  hard  a  guerdon  well ; 

But  so  dost  thou,  and  haply  I  may  try 
That  last  expedient  with  a  shrew  stj  fell, 
But  when  I  do  no  man  shall  me  compel  : 

For  thy  own  good  to  poverty  I  yield  ; 
My  child  is  still  my  own,  and  shall  not  tell 

At  Heaven's  high  bar,  that  I,  her  only  shield, 

For  blame  that  was  not  hers,  expell'd  her  to  the 
tield/' 

12. 

Kincraigy  leaves  his  ancient  home  with  tears, 

And  sits  in  lowly  cot  without  a  name  ; 
No  angry  word  from  him  his  daughter  hears, 

But  Oh  !  how  pined  the  much-degraded  dame  ; 

Plaint  follow'd  plaint,   and   blame  was  eked  to 
blame. 
Her  muster-roll  of  grievances  how  long. 

She  mentions  not  her  darling  Minstrel's  fame, 
His  spotless  honour,  nor  affection  strong, 
Bat  to  her  weeping  child  imputes  each 'grievou 
wrong. 


170  MADOR   OF    THE   MOOR. 

13. 

Conceal'd  within  the  cot's  sequester'd  nook, 
^  Where  fire  had  never  beam'd  the  gloom  to  cheo; 

Young  Ila  Moore  is  doom'd  her  woes  to  brook, 
And  every  query's  answer'd  by  a  tear 
What  mean  those  tiny  robes,  conceal'd  with  fear 

These  clothes,  dear  maid,  are  all  unmeet  for  thee  ; 
Are  all  unfitting  human  thing  to  wear, 

Save  noble  infant  on  his  nurse's  knee, 

Yet  them  thou   dost  survey,  and  weep  when   nonB 
can  see. 

14. 

Oh  Maiden  of  the  bright  and  melting  eye. 

Of  the  soft  velvet  cheek  and  balmy  breath. 
Whose  lips  the  coral's  deepest  tints  outvie, 

Thy  bosom  fairer  than  the  winter  wreath  ; 

Before  thou  yield'st  those  lips  of  simple  faith. 
Or  givest  that  heaving  breast  to  love's  caress^ 

Oh,  look  beyond  ! — the  sweet  luxuriant  path 
May  lead  thee  into  lab'rinth  of  distress; 
Think  of  this  comely  May,  nor  deem  thy  danger 
less. 

15. 

Blame  not  the  bard,  who  yearns  thy  peace  to  save. 

Who  fain  would  see  thy  virtuous  worth  excel 
Thy  beauty,  and  thy  purity  engrave 

Where  time  may  scarce  the  lines  of  life  cancel. 

Deem  not  he  on  thy  foibles  lists  to  dwell, 
Thy  failings,  or  the  dangers  thee  belay  ; 

'Tis  all  to  caution  thee,  and  warn  thee  well. 


THE    COTTAGE.  171 

Wipe  but  thy  little  stains  of  love  away , 
And  ihou  art  goodness  all,   and  pure  as  bloom  of 
May. 

16. 
lo  give  thy  secret  ear  to  lover's  tale, 

Or  cast  approving  glance,  is  kindly  done  : 
But  ere  thy  soul  the  darling  sweets  inhale, 

Mark  out  the  bourn — nor  farther  be  thou  won. 

Eventful  is  the  sequel,  once  begun. 
And  all  delusive  sweets  that  onward  lie. 

Think  of  the  inmost  nook  of  cottage  lone, 
Of  the  blench'd  cheek,  the  blear'd  and  swimming 

eye, 
And  how  'twill  thee  become,  th'  unsainted  lullaby  I 

17. 
'Tis  done  1    and    Shame    his    masterpiece    hath 

wrought  I 
Why  should  the  laws  of  God  and  man  combine, 
iTo  sear  the  heart  with  keenest  sorrows  fraught, 
And  every  blush  and  every  tear  enshrine 
In  brazen  tomb  of  punishment  malign  ? 
iThe  gentle  sufferer  beacon  stands  to  scorn  : 

Kincraigy's  dame  is  sunk  in  woes  condign, 
'A  helpless  minstrel  to  her  house  is  born  ; 
'A  grandson,  hale  and  fair,  and  comely  as  the  morn. 

18. 
Poor  child  of  shame  !  thy  fortune  to  divine 

Would  conjure  up  the  scenes  of  future  pain  '. 
f  No  father's  house,  nor  shielding  arm  is  thine  ! 

^'-^^banquet  hails  thee,  stranger  of  disdain  ' 


17^  MADOR   OF    THE    MOOR. 

A  lowly  shelter  from  the  wind  and  rain 
Hides  thy  young  weetless  head,  unwelcome  guest  1 

And  thy  unholy  frame  must  long  remain 
Unhousell'd,  and  by  churchman's  tongue  unblest ! 
Yet  peaceful   is   thy  sleep,   cradled  on  guileless 
breast  ? 


19. 
Hard  works  Kincraigy  mid  his  woodland  reign, 
'*^''  And  boasts  his  earnings  to  his  fluster'd  dame  ; 
Seem'd  as  unknowing  the  event  of  pain, 
Nor  once  by  him  is  named  his  daughter's  name, 
Till  ardent  matron  of  the  hamlet  came, 
And  brought  the  child  abrubt  his  eye  before. 
He  saw  the  guiltless  his  protection  claim, 
With  little  arms  outstretch'd  seem'd  to  implore — 
He  kiss'd  the  babe  and  wept,  then  hasted  to  the 
door. 

20. 
But  Oh,  Kincraigy-'s  dame  is  wrap'd  in  dread  ! 

The  days  of  Heaven's  forbearance  are  outgone, 
And  round  th'  unchristen'd  babe's  unholy  bed 

No  gaardian  spirits  watch  at  midnight  lone  ! 

Well  to  malignant  elves  the  same  was  known — 
There  slept  the  babe,  to  them  an  easy  prey. 

Oh  !  every  nightly  buzz  or  distant  moan 
Drove  the  poor  dame's  unrooted  wits  away  ! 
Her  terror  'twas  by  night,  her  thought  and  prayer 
by  day. 


THE  COTTAGE.  17:? 

21. 

Still  wax'd  her  dread,  for  ah  :  too  well  she  knew 

Her  floor,  o'ernight,  had  frames  unearthly  borne  ' 
Around  her  cot  the  giggling  fairies  flew, 

And  all  arrangement  alter'd  ere  the  raorn ! 

At  eve,  the  candle  of  its  beams  was  shorn, 
While  a  blue  halo  round  the  flame  would  play  ; 

And  she  could  hear  the  fairies'  fitful  horn 
Ring  in  her  ears  an  eldrich  roundelay, 
When  every  eye  was  shut,  and  hers  all  wakeful  lay. 

22. 
And  many  a  private  mark  the  infant  bore, 
Survey'd  each  morn  with  dread  which  none  can 
tell, 
Lest  the  real  child  was  borne  to  downward  shore^ 
And  in  his  stead,  and  form,  by  fairy  spell. 
Some  froward  elfin  child,  deform'd  and  fell  1 
Oh,  how  her  troubled  breast  with  horror  shook, 

Lest  thing  from  confines  of  the  lower  hell 
Might  sit  upon  her  knee  and  on  her  look  ! 
'Twas  more  than  her  weak  mind  and  fading  form 
could  brook. 

23. 
Sweet  Ila  Moore  had  borne  the  world's  revile 

With  meekness,  and  with  warm  repentant  tears  ; 
At  church-anathemas  she  well  could  smile, 

And  silent  oft  of  faithless  man  she  hears. 

But  now  a  kind  misjudging  parent's  fears 
Opprest  her  heart — her  father  too  would  sigh 

O'er  the  unrighteous  babe,  whose  early  years 


174  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 

Excluded  were  from  saints'  society  ! 

Disown'd  by  God  and  man,  a  heathen  he  might  die 


24. 
Forthwith  she  tried  a  letter  to  indite, 

To  rouse  the  faithless  Mador's  dormant  flame  : 
Her  soul  was  rack'd  with  feelings  opposite  ; 

She  found  no  words  proportion'd  to  his  blame. 

At  memory's  page  her  blushes  went  and  came  ; 
And  aye  she  stoop'd  and  o'er  the  cradle  hung, 

Caird  her  loved  infant  by  his  father's  name, 
Then  framed  a  little  lay,  and  thus  she  sung — 
"  Thy  father's  far  away,  thy  mother  all  too  young ; 

25. 
"  Be  still,  my  babe  1  be  still ! — the  die  is  cast ! 

Beyond  thy  weal  no  joy  remains  for  me  ! 
Thy  mother's  spring  was  clouded  and  o'erpast 

Erewhile  the  blossom  open'd  on  the  tree  ! 

But  I  will  nurse  thee  kindly  on  my  knee, 
In  spite  of  every  taunt  and  jeering  tongue  ; 

Oh,  thy  sweet  eye  will  melt  my  wrongs  to  see  ! 
And  thy  kind  little  heart  with  grief  be  wrung  ! 
Thy  father's  far  away,  thy  mother  all  too  young  1 

2fi. 
'  If  haggard  poverty  should  overtake, 

And  threat  our  onward  journey  to  forelay^ 
For  thee  I'll  pull  the  berries  of  the  brake, 

Wake  half  the  night,  and  toil  the  live-long  day; 
And  wJien  proud  manhood  o'er  thy  brow  shall 
play, 


THE  COTTAGE.  170 

For  me  thy  bow  in  forest  shall  be  strung. 

The  memory  of  my  errors  shall  decay 
And  of  the  song  of  shame  I  oft  have  sung, 
Of  father  far  away,  and  mother  all  too  young  ! 

27. 
"  But  Oh  !  when  mellow'd  lustre  gilds  thine  eye, 

And  love's  soft  passion  thrills  thy  youthful  frame. 
Let  this  memorial  bear  thy  mind  on  high 

Above  the  guilty  and  regretful  flame. 

The  mildew  of  the  soul,  the  mark  of  shame  ! 

Think  of  the  fruit  before  the  bloom  that  sprung ! 

When  in  the  twilight  bower  with  beauteous  dame^ 
Lest  this  unbreathed  lay  hang  on  thy  tongue, — 
Thy  father's  far  away,  thy  mother  all  too  young  !*' 

28. 
AVhen  days  and  nights  a  stained  scroll  had  seen 

Beneath  young  Ila  Moore's  betrothed  eye  ; 
When  many  a  tear  had  dropt  the  lines  between. 

When  dim  the  page  with  many  a  burning  sigh, 

A  boy  is  charged  to  Scotland's  court  to  hie. 
The  pledge  to  bear,  nor  leave  the  Minstrel's  doer 

Till  answer  came. — Alas  !  nor  low  nor  high, 
Porter  nor  groom,  nor  warder  of  the  tower, 
Had  ever  heard  the  name  of  Mador  9f  the  Moor. 


MADOR  OF  THE  3IOOR 


CANTO  IX'. 


THE  PALMER 


ARGUMENT. 

Did  ye  never  hear  of  the  puir  auld  niui,-. 

That  doughtna  live,  and  coudna  die  ? 
Wha  spak  to  the  spirits  a'  night  lang, 

An'  saw  the  things  we  coudna  see, 
An'  raised  the  bairnies  out  of  the  grave  ?- 

Oh  but  a  waesome  sight  was  he ! 


MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 


CANTO  IV 


THE  PALMER. 

1. 

Theee  is  a  bounded  sphere,  where  human  grief 

May  all  the  energies  of  mind  benumb ; 
^Twixt  purpose  and  regret,  it  seeks  relief 

In  unavailing  plaint,  or  musings  dumb ; 

But  to  overwhelming  height  when  mounts  the  sum 
Oft,  to  itself  superior,  mind  hath  shone. 

That  broken  reed,  Dependence,  overcome, 
Where  dwells  the  night  that  may  the  soul  unthrone, 
Whose  proud  resolve  is  moored  on  its  own  powers 
alone  1 

2. 

Why  is  young  Ila  dight  in  robes  so  gay, 
Her  hue  more  lovely  than  the  gold  refined  1 
I  Why  bears  she  to  the  southern  vales  away^ 
An^  leaves  the  voody  tanks  of  Tay  behind. 


180  5IAD0R   OF    THE   MOOR- 

Her  beauteous  boy  well  wrapt  from  sun  and  w. 
In  mantle  spangled  like  ihe  heath  in  flower  ? — 

Ah  !  she  is  gone  her  wandering  love  to  find_. 
In  court  or  camp,  in  hall  or  lady's  bower, 
Resolv'd  to  die,  or  find  young  Mador  of  the  3Iooi . 

3 

Had  she  not  csuse  to  weep  her  piteous  plight  ? 

In  the  wide  world  unfriended  thus  to  be ! 
\  babe,  un weaned,  companion  of  her  flight! — 

She  did  not  weep  ;  her  spirits  bounded  free, 

And  all  indignant  that  her  injury 
Moved  no  congenial  feeling  on  ber  side, 

With  robe  of  green,  upfolded  to  her  knee. 
And  light  unsand  lied  foot,  o'er  wastes  so  wide 
She  journeyed  far  away,   with  Heaven  alone  to 
guide. 

4. 

-»he  had  not  traversed  far  the  woods  of  Bran, 
Nor  of  her  native  hills  had  lost  the  view. 

Where  oft,  on  maidhood's  lightsome  foot,  she  ran; 
Pilf  ring  the  rock-rose  and  the  harebell  blue, 
Or  moorland  berries  bathed  in  autumn  dew. 

When,  startled,  she  beheld  a  Palmer  gray 
Rise  from  beneath  a  lonely  ronkled  yew, 

Where  he  had  prostrate  lain  since  dawn  of  day. 

Who  proffered  her  his  hand,  companio   of  her  way 

5. 

He  seem'd  familiar  with  her  wrongs  and  aim  ? 
Full  oft  she  view'd  his  face,  if  she  might  See 


THE   PALMER.  181 

Some  feature  there  that  might  acquaintance  claim; 

It  wore  the  rayste  ies  of  eternity  ! 

That  face  was  mild  a?  face  of  age  could  be, 
Yet  something  there  'twas  dread  to  look  upon! 

A  mien  between  profound  and  vacancy, 
Bewraying  thought  to  mortal  niun  unknown, 
Or  soul  abstract  from  sense,  with  feelings  all  its 
own, 

6. 

She  marvell'd  much  to  hear,  as  on  they  went, 

His  heavenly  converse  and  his  sage  replies ; 
But  mark'd  him  oft  regard  with  fond  intent 

Things  all  invisible  to  mortal  eyes. 

The  light-wing'd  winds,   that  flaunted  thro'  the 
skies, 
5lpoke  in  small  voices,  like  the  Elfin's  tongue  ; 

From  welling  fountains  harmonies  would  rise, 
Like  song  of  lark  liigh  in  the  rainbow  hung  ; 
Seem'd  as  if  distant  hymns  of  other  worlds  they 
sung. 


7 

\\\  pleasing  dread  she  sojourn'd  by  his  side, 
Nor  durst  she  his  companionship  forego  ; 

But  either  fear  her  faculties  belied, 
Else  speech  was  whisper'd  from  the  earth  b«lo\v 
And  elemental  converse  round  did  flow  : 
The  stranger  answer'd  oft  in  varied  tone  ; 
Then  he  wet'ld  smile,  and  chide  she  Knew  Rot 
who? 


182  MADOR  OF   THE  MOOR. 

Seem'd  as  to  him  each  herald  cloud  was  known, 
That  crept  along  the  hill,  or  eoil'd  the  starry  zone 

8. 
'^  Give  me  thy  child,  fair  dame,"  he  said  and  smi 
led, 
Clasping  his  arms  around  the  comely  boy. 
''Give  me  the  child,  thy  youth  is  sorely toil'd, 
And  I  will  bear  him  half  the  way  with  joy." 
She  loosed  her  hold,  unwilling  to  seem  coy  ; 
Scarce  was  the  timid  aft  of  sufferance  done. 

Ere  wild  ideas  wrought  her  sore  annoy, 
That  Elfin  King  th'  unchristen'd  babe  had  won, 
Deep  in  her  heart  she  pray'd  that  God  would  save 
her  son ! 

9. 
She  look'd  each  moment  when  the  old  man's  form 

Would  change  to  something  of  unearthly  guise  ; 
She  look'd  each  moment  when  the  thunder-storm 

Would  roll  in  folded  sulphur  from  the  skies. 

And  snatch  them  from  her  terror  darken'd  eyes  '. 
She  foUow'd  nigh,  enfeebled  with  affright, 

And  saw  her  boy,  in  roguish  playful  wise. 
Pulling  the  old  man's  beard  with  all  his  might, — 
The  change  to  him  was  fraught  with  new  and  higli 
delight. 

10. 

Her  heavt  was  quieted,  but  ill  at  rest. 
And  gave  unwonted  thoughts  a  teeming  birlli 

Of  this  most  reverend  and  mysterious  guest^ 
Who  Etarcely  feem'd  a  habit&nt  of  ^artb. 


THE  PALMER.  18o 

The  day  was  wearing  late,  no  friendly  hearth 
Was  nigh,  where  converse  might  the  time  betray  : 

The  storm  was  hanging  on  the  mountain  swarth, 
Condense  and  gloomy,  threatening  sore  dismay 
To  wanderer  of  the  hills,  on  rough  and  pathless 
way  ? 

11. 
A  darksome  shieling,  westward  on  the  waste, 

Stood  like  a  lonely  hermit  of  the  glen  ; 
A  small  green  sward  its  bcistion'd  walls  embraced", 

Kything  right  simply  sweet  to  human  ken  : 

On  tiny  path,  unmark'd  by  steps  of  men, 
To  that  they  turn  d.  in  hopes  of  welcome  meet ; 

'Twas  only  then  the  gruvelling  badger's  den. 
Damp  was  its  floor,  untrode  by  human  feet, 
And  cold,  cold  lay  the  hearth,  uncheer'd  by  kind- 
ly heat. 

12. 

The  marten,  from  his  vault  beneath  the  wall, 
Peep'd  forth  with  fiend-like  eye,  and  fetid  breath 

They  heard  the  vounc  brock's  whining  hunger-call. 
And  the  grim  pole-cat's  grinding  voice  beneath 
The  merlin,  from  his  rafter'd  home,  in  wrath, 

Flitted  with  flapping^  wing  and  erdlich  scream  ; 
No  downward  sepulchre,  nor  vault  of  death, 
'  Did  ever  deed  of  horror  more  beseem  ; 

'Twas   like  some   rueful  cave   seen  in  perturbed 
dream. 


13. 

The  storm  was  on,  and  darkening  still  behind. 
Alternate  rush'd  the  rain  and  rattling  hail : 


184  MADOR  OF   THE   MOOR. 

In  deepen'd  breathings  sigh'd  the  cumber 'd  wind . 
Play'd  the  swift  gleam  along  the  boreal-pale, 
While  distant  thunder  murraur'd  o'er  the  gale 

Far  up  th'  incumbent  cloud  its  voice  began, 
Then,  like  resistless  angel,  bound  to  scale 

The  southern  heaven,  along  the  void  it  ran, 

Booming,  in  wrathful  tone,  vengeance  on  sinful  ma 

14. 

It  was  a  dismal  and  portentous  hour  : 

A  mute  astonishment  and  torpid  dread 
Had  settled  on  the  soul  of  Ila  Moore  ; 

In  whisper'd  prayers,  of  Heaven  she  sought  i 
mede  ; 

For  well  she  knew   that  He,  who  deign'd  to  feed 
The  plumeless  sea-bird  on  the  stormy  main. 

The  raven,  and  the  osprey's  orphan  breed, 
To  save  an  injured  heart  would  not  disdain. 
Nor  leave  the  souls  he  made  to  sorrow  and  to  pain. 

15. 

Nigh  and  more  nigh  the  rolling  thunder  came, 

Muffled  in  moving  pall  of  midnight  hue  ; 
Fiercer  and  fiercer  burst  the  flakes  of  flame 

From  out  the  forge  of  Heaven  in  burning  blue. 

They  split  the  yawning  cloud,  and  downward 
flew, 
Before  their  wrath  the  solid  hill  was  riven  ; 

Some  in  the  lake  their  fiery  heads  imbrue, 
Its  startled  waters  to  the  sky  were  driven. 
Belching  as  if  it  mock'd  the  angry  coil  of  Heaven, 


THE   PALMER.  i^ 

16. 

* Jii,  je,  who  mock  religion's  faded  3way, 

And  flout  the  mind  that  bow?  to  H.^aven's  decre-. 

Think  of  the  tortitude  of  that  fair  May, 
Her  simple  youth,  in  such  a  place  to  be, 
In  such  a  night,  and  in  such  company, — 

With  guest  she  ween'd  not  man  of  woman  born. 
A  babe  unblest  upon  her  youthful  knee  1 

Had  she  .not  cause  to  deem  her  case  forlorn  1 

rs'o  !  trusting  to  her  God,  she  calmly  waited  mor: 

17. 

The  Palmer  did  no  sign  of  fear  bewray. 

But  raised  a  fire  with  well-accu?fom"d  hand, 

Smiled  at  the  thunder's  break  and  startling  bray. 
The  chilly  hail-shower  and  the  whizzing  brant 
In  wild  turmoil  that  volley'd  o'er  the  land. 

Then  he  would  mutter  prayer,  or  rite  of  sin  ; 
Then  prattle  to  the  child  in  language  bland  ; 

While  the  fond  mother  groand  in  heart  withiu; 

"Lest  at  the  turn  of  night  the  fiends  her  babe  migh 
win. 


18 
The  Palmer,  lor  his  helpless  partners,  made 
A  bed  of  flowery  heath  and  rushes  green  ; 
Then  o'er  the  twain  his  mantle  kindly  spread  ; 
And  bade  them  sleep  secure,  though  lodged   5 

mean  ; 
For  near  that  lowly  couch,  by  them  unseen, 
rhsre  stood  a  form,  familiar  to  his  eye, 
Whose  look  was  mark'd  wiih  dignity  serene; 


ioQ  BfADOR  or  THE  MOOfi, 

To  ward  the  freakish  fays  that  lingered  nigh, 
Who  seemed  on  evil  bent— he  saw  not,  knew  r.: 
whj. 

19 
The  Palmer  watch'd  beside  the  hissing  flame, 

Tiie  mother  clasp'd  her  child  in  silence  deep  ; 
That  speech  of  mystery  thriD'd  her  ardent  frame. 
For   why  ? — she   knew  the  fays  their  wake   did 

keep 
To  reave  her  child  if  she  should  yield  to  sleep  5 
i\o  sleep  she  knew — if  woman's  word  is  aught — 

But.  venturing  oer  her  coverlet  to  peep, 
Whether  through  glamour  or  bewilder'd  thoughf. 
She   there  beheld  a  scene    with   awful    wonde: 
fraught ! 

20. 
From  evary  crevice  of  the  wall  there  looked 

Small  elvish  faces  of  malignity  ! 
\nd  Oh  ;  their  gleaming  eyes  could  ill  be  brooked  i 
All  bent  upon  the  babe  that  slumber'd  by  ! 
Ready  they  seem'd  upon  their  prey  to  fly, 
And  oft  they  sprung,  or  stole  with  wary  tread  , 

But  o'er  the  couch  a  form  of  majesty 
Stood  all  serene,  whose  eye  the  spirits  fled, 
Varing  the  golden  wand  she  waved  around  the 
bed. 

21 
The  Palmer  saw — and.  as  the  damsel  thought, 

Jovd  that  th'  assailing  spirits  were  outdone  ; 
Still  wax'd  their  number,  still  they  fiercer  foughr 

Till  the  last  lingering  sand  of  night  was  run. 


THE    PALMER.  187 

Till  the  red  star  the  gate  of  Heaven  had  won. 
And  woke  the  dreaming  eagle's  lordly  bay, 

And  heath-cock's  larum  on  the  moorland  dun  ; 
Then  did  they  shrink  and  vihish  from  the  fray, 
Far  from  the  eye  of  morn,   on  downward  paths 
away. 

22. 
Spent  was  the  knight,  and  the  old  reverend  sire 
Had  never  closed   his   eyes,  but  watched  and 
wept, 
Muttering  low  vespers  o'er  his  feeble  fire, 
Or,  all  intent,  a  watchful  silence  kept, 
Now  o'er  his  silver  beard  the  round  teardripp'd^ 
Aside  his  cowl  with  hurried  hand  he  flung, 
Wiped  his  high  brow,  and  cheek  with  sorrow 
steep'd. 
Then,  with  an  upcast  eye  and  tremulous  tongue. 
Unto  the  God  of  lAfe  this  matin  hymn  be  sung. 


THE  PALMER'S  MORNING  HYMN, 

Lauded  be  thy  name  forever, 
Thou  of  life  the  guard  and  giver  ! 
Thou  canst  guard  thy  creatures  sleeping. 
Heal  the  heart  long  broke  with  weepiag 
Rule  the  ouphes  and  elves  at  will 
That  vex  the  air  or  haunt  the  hill, 
And  all  the  fury  subject  keep 
Of  boiling  cloud  and  chafed  deep  ! 
I  have  seen,  and  well  I  know  it ! 
Thou  hast  done,  and  Thou  wilt  do  it : 
*8 


I 


183  MADOR  OF   THE  MOeF. 

God  of  Stillness  and  of  motion  ! 
Of  tJie  rainbow  and  the  ocean ! 
Of  the  mountain,  rock,  and  river  ! 
BIes3ed  be  Thy  name^or  ever  !      •  -.-^    '; 

I  have  seen  Thy  wond'rous  might 
Through  the  shadows  of  this  night ! 
Thou,  who  slumber'st  not,  nor  sleepesl  * 
Blest  are  they  Thou  kindly  keepest ! 
Spirits  from  the  ocean  under, 
Liquid  flame,  and  levell'd  thunder, 
Need  not  waken  nor  alarm  them — 
All  combined  they  cannot  harm  them. 
God  of  evening's  yellow  ray  ; 
God  of  yonder  dawning  day, 
That  rises  from  the  distant  sea 
Like  breathings  of  eternity  ! 
Thine  the  flaming  sphere  of  light ' 
Thine  the  darkness  of  the  night ! 
Thine  are  all  the  gems  of  even, 
God  of  angels  !  God  of  heaven  ! 
God  of  life,  that  fade  shall  never  ■ 
Glory  to  Thy  name  for  ever ! 

23. 

That  little  sung  of  rapt  devotion  fell 
Upon  a  feeling  heart,  to  nature  true, 

So  soothing  sweet,  'twas  like  the  distant  swell 
Of  seraph  hymn  along  the  vales  of  blue, 
When  first  they  ope  to  sainted  spirits  view. 

That  through  the  wilds  of  space  hatii  journeyed  ]i 
Hooping,  yet  trembling  as  he  onward  flew. 


THE    PALMEB. 


189 


Lest  God  the  emerald  gates  of  Heaven  might  bar, 
THl  rests  the  joyous  shade  on  some  sweet  peaceful 
star. 

24. 
Till  then  she  knew  not  that  the  wondrous  sage 

Was  conversant  with  Heaven,  or  fiends  of  hell ; 
Till  then  she  knew  not  thatliis  reverend  age 
Cared  of  th'  Almighty  or  his  love  to  tell. 
Sweet  and  untroubled  as  the  dews  that  fell 
Her  morning  slumbers  were— the  Palmer  lay 
Stretch'd  on  the  unyielding  stone,  accustom'd 
well 
To  penance  dire,  and  spirits'  wild  deray : 
There  slept  they  all  in  peace  till  high  uprose  the 
day. 

25. 
They  journcy'd  on  by  Almond's  silver  stream, 

That  wimpled  down  a  green  untrodden  wild  : 
By  turns  their  hapless  stories  were  the  therae^ 

And  aye  the  listner  bore  the  pleased  child. 

The  attentive  page  nor  chided  nor  reviled, 
When  simple  tale  of  maiden  love  she  said  ; 

Meek  his  reproof,  and  flow'd  in  words  so  mild, 
It  tended  much  her  constancy  to  aid, 
And  cheer  her  guileless  heart  from  truth  that  never 
stray 'd= 

26. 
•  Fair  dame,"  he  said,  "  thou  may'st  have  done 
amiss ; 
nd  thou  art  brought  to  poverty  and  wo  ! 


190  MADOR   OF    THE    MOOR. 

What  now  remains,  but  quietly  to  kiss 
The  lash  that  hangs  o'er  virtue's  overthro\v  . 
Be  virtue  still  thy  meed,  thy  trust,  and  know- 
It  thee  befits  from  murmur  to  refrain. 

No  plaint  of  thy  just  wounds  be  heard  to  flow, 
The  hand  that  gave  will  bind  them  up  again. 
List  my  distracting  tale,  and  blame  thy  fortu: 
then ! 


27. 

'•  I  was  the  lord  of  Stormount's  fertile  bound, 

Of  Isla's  vale,  and  Eroch's  woodland  glade. 
I  loved — 1  sigh'd — my  warmest  hopes  were  crown'' 

Oh  deed  of  shame  !  I  vow'd  and  I  betray'd ! 

The  proud  Matilda,  now  no  longer  maid, 
Disdain'd  my  base  unfaithful  heart  to  move  ; 

She  knew  not  to  solicit,  nor  upbraid  ; 
But  did  a  deedl  the  last  of  lawless  love  ! 
Ah!  it  hath  sear'd  my  soul,  that  peace  no  mo, 
shall  prove ! 

28. 
■'  I  knew  not  all,  yet  marvell'd  much  to  see 

That  scarce  a  circling  year  had  roH'd  away. 
Ere  she  appear'd  the  gayest  maid  to  be 

That  graced  the  hall,  or  garabol'd  at  the  play. 

With  3Iethven'"s  lord  was  fixed  her  bridal  day  • 
Proud  of  her  triumph,  I — the  chiefest  guest — 

Led  her  to  church — Ah  !  never  such  array 
Did  woman's  form  of  vanity  invest ! 
Bright  as  the  orient  ray,  or  streamer  of  the  west. 


THE  PALMER.  191 

29. 

•'Scarce  had  we  stepp  d,  the  foremost  of  the  train. 
Within  the  church-yard's  low   and   crumbling 
wall, 
When,  sweet  as  sunbeam  gleaming  through  the 
rain, 
We  saw  a  shining  row  of  children  small, 
Fair  were  their  forms,  and  fair  their  robea  withal; 
But  Oh  !  each  radiant  and  unmoving  eye 
Was  fix'd  on  us  1 — forget  I  never  shall 
How  well  they  seem'd  my  very  soul  to  spy  ! 
And  hers — the  sparkling  bride,  that  moved  so  grace 
ful  by ! 

30. 

''  Proud  of  their  note,  or  charmed  with  the  sight, 

She  turn'd  aside  with  step  of  dignity  ! 
All  still  and  motionless,  they  stood  upright, 

Save  one  sweet  babe  that  slightlv  bent  the  knee . 

W^ith  such  a  smile  of  raild  benignity  I 
These  eyes  shall  ne"er  such  face  again  behold  I 

His  flaxen  curls  like  filmy  silk  did  flee  ; 
His  tiny  form  seem'd  cast  in  heavenly  mould  ; 
His  cheek  like  blossom  pale,  in  April  morning  cold. 

31. 

'•  ■  Sweet  babe,'  she  simper'd,  with  affected  mien. 

'  Thou  art  a  lovely  boy  ;  if  thou  wert  mine, 
I'd  deck  thee  in  the  gold  and  diamonds  sheen. 

And  daily  bathe  thee  in  the  rosy  wine  ; 

The  musk-rose  and  the  balmv  esrlantine 


192  MADOR  OF  THE  SIOOH. 

Around  thy  soft  and  silken  couch  should  play  , 

How  fondly  would  these  arms  around  thee  twine 
Asleep  or  waking,  I  would  watch  thee  aye, 
Caress  thee  all  the  night,  and  love  thee  all  the  da} 

32. 
'  'Olady,  of  the  proud  unfeeling  soul, 
'Tis  not  three  little  months  since  I  was  thine 
.\nd  thou  did'st  deck  me  in  .the  grave-cloth  foul. 
And  bathe  me  in  the  blood — that  blood  was  rnin 
Instead  of  damask  rose  and  eglantine, 
The  reptile's  brood  plays  round  my  guiltless  cor^ 

Ah  !  could'st  thou  deem  there  was  no  eye  divine. 
And  that  the  deed  would  sleep  for  evermore  ? 
Did'st  thou  ne'er  see  this  pale,  this  pleading  look 
before  ? 

33. 
"  That  moment  I  beheld,  beneath  mine  eye, 

A  smiling  babe,  with  hands  and  eyes  upraised  ; 
A  pale  and  frantic  mother  trembled  nigh — 

She  kneel'd — she  seized  its  arm  ! — the  knife  wat^ 
raised — 

'  Hold,  hold  !'  I  cried  :  yet  motionless  I  gazed, 
And  saw Oh  God  of  Heaven  !  I  see  it  now  ! 

I  see  the  eye-beam  sink  in  deadly  haze  ; 
The  quivering  lip,  the  bent  and  gelid  brow  ! — 
Oh  I  shall  see  that  sight  in  being  yet  to  know  ! 

34. 

To  wild  disorder  turn'd  the  bridal  hall ! 

Oh  still  at  me  her  frenzied  looks  she  threw  ' 


THE   PALMER.  193 

AH  ill  amazement  fled  the  festival, 
The  sufferer  to  the  wild  at  midaight  flew  ! — 
Thou  found  at  me  underneath  a  lonely  yew  ; 

There  I  have  pray'd.  and  oft  must  pray  apain*. 
There  ravens  fed  !  and  red  the  daisies  gr^.w! — 

Yet  they  were  white  !  without  a  dye  or  stain, 

The  slender  scatter'd  bones  there  bleeched  in  the 
rain! 

35. 
■'  Fair  dame,  thy  crime  is  purity  to  mine  ! 

I  must  go  pray,  for  I  am  haunted  still ! 
In  Heaven  is  mercy  ! — I  may  not  repine, 

But  bow  submissive,  since  it  is  the  will 

Of  Him,  who  cares  and  feels  for  human  ill ! 
They  deem  me  mad,  and  laugh  my  woes  to  scorn. 

And  name  me  crazy  Connel  of  the  hill ! 
My  heart  is  broke  !  my  brain  with  watching  worn  I 
I  must  go  pray  to  God,  for  I  am  rack'd  and  torn  !*" 

36. 
He  kneel'd  beside  the  gray  stone  on  the  heath, 

And  loud  his  orisions  of  dread  began  ! 
^^Such  words  were  never  framed  of  human  breath, 

Such  tones  of  vehemence  ne'er  pourd  by  man  ! 

Madly  through  vailed  mysteries  he  ran, 
With  voice  of  howling  and  unvision'd  eye  ; 

Then  would  the  tears  drop  o'er  his  cheek  so  wan, 
And  he  would  calmly  plead,  with  throb  and  sigh, 
And  name  his  iSaviour'i5  name  with  deep  humiJity 


194.  MADOE  OF  THE  MOOR. 

37. 

Three  days  they  journey'd  on  through  moor  and 
dale, 

Till  faded  far  the  hills  of  Tay  behind  •; 
Still  he  was  gentle  as  the  southern  gale, 

Mild  as  the  lamb,  compassionate  and  kind  I 

But  Oh  far  wilder  than  the  winter  wind 
Whene'er  a  world  of  spirits  was  the  theme  ! 

Then  he  would  name  unbodied  things  of  mind, 

That  paced  the  air,  or  skimm'd  along  the  stream  5 

His  life  seem'd  all  a  waste,  a  wild  and  troubled 

dream. 

38. 

•Still  had  the  crime  of  innocence  betray'd, 

Which  terminated  not  with  shame  alone, 
Oppressed  his  heart  and  on  his  reason  prey'd ; 

In  tears  of  blood  that  crime  he  did  bemoan. 

Though   mazed   were  all  his  thoughts,  yet  to 
atone 
For  that  to  Heaven  which  reckless  he  had  donC; 

O'er  maiden  innocence  to  watch  anon 
He  ceased  not,  wearied  not,  till  life  was  run. 
Oh  be  his  tale  a  warning,  youthful  vice  to  shun  ! 

39. 
When  nigh  the  verge  of  southern  vale  they  came, 

And  green  Strathallan  open'd  to  their  view, 
lie  blest  the  child  and  mother,  in  the  name 
Of  heaven's  Eternal  King,  with  reverence  due  ; 
Then  turning  round,  with  roadden'd  strides  with  = 
«?rew 


THE  TALlHEtL,  19p 

Back  to  his  desert  Bolitude  again, 

To  watch  the  moon,  and  pray  beneath  his  yew. 
Controlling  spirits  on  their  mountain  reign, 
Till  death  brought  unity,  for  ever  to  remain  ' 


MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR 


CANTO  y 


THE  CHRISTENING 


ARGUMENT. 

I  gat  ye  in  my  father's  bower 

Wi'  muckle  shame  and  sin, 
An'  brought  thee  up  in  good  green  \voo(- 

Aneath  the  heavy  rain. 
Oft  ha'e  I  by  thy  cradle  sat, 

An'  fondly  seen  thee  sleep — 


Gae  rowe  my  young  son  in  the  silk, 
An'  lay  my  lady  as  white  as  the  milk 


MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR^ 

GANTO  V. 

THE  GHRISTENLNG. 

)LD  Strftvline,  thou  stand'st  beauteous  on  the 
height, 

Amid  thy  peaceful  valea  of  every  dye, 
imid  bevvildcr'd  waves  of  silvery  light 

That  maze  the  mind  and  toil  the  raptured  eye  ; 

Thy  distant  mountains  spiring  to  the  sky, 
(eem  blended  with  the  mansions  of  the  blest; 

How  proudly  rise  their  gilded  points  on  high 
.bove  the  niorning  cloud  and  man's  behest ! 
like  thrones  of  angels  hung  upon  the  welkin's 
treasr. 

1. 

Qt  these  I  love  tliee  !?but  I  love  thee  more 
I  For  the  gray  relics  of  thy  martial  towers, 
I  by  mouldering  palaces  and  ramparts  hoar, 
IX^^Qned  '^•n  the^ranite^pile  that  grimly  lourg^ 


200  ilADOR   OF  THE   MOOH. 

Memorial  of  the  times,  when  hostile  powers 
So  often  proved  the  steadfast  patriot  worth. 

May  every  honour  wait  thy  future  hours, 
And  glad  the  children  of  thy  kindred  Forth  I 
I  love  thy  very  name  old  bulwark  of  the  North 

3. 

Alas  !  the  winding  Forth,  and  golden  vale, 

Caught  not  the  eye  of  her  who  sought  thy  gate  ' 
Her  spirits  sunk,  her  heart  be^an  to  fail ! 

Weeping  she  came,  nor  could  her  tale  relate! 

Mador  she  named,  and  trembling  for  her  fate, 
Watch'd  the  tall  porter's  dark  unmeaning  Btare, 

Who  jested  rudely  of  her  hapless  state, 
And  bade  her  to  some  distant  country  fare. 
For  such  a  name  as  that  no  Scot  did  ever  bea; 

i 
4. 
Humbly  she  begg'd  to  fare  the  porch  within, 
That  of  the  nobles  she  a  view  might  gain, 
And  her  inquiries  cautiously  begin  ; 
But  all  her  urgent  prayers  and  tears  were  vaiti  I 
Harsh  she  was  told,  "no  longer  to  remain, 
Eor  knights  and  lords  would  soon  be  passing  by, 

And  they  would  be  offended  at  such  stain 
Upon  their  knighthood  and  th^ir  honours  high  . 
That  such  as  she  seem'd  made  for  mischief  pu 
posely.''  _' 

5. 
No  beam  of  anger  ray'd  her  glistening  eye, 
I?  sank  like  star  v/ithin  the  rubied  wept 


THE   CHRISTENIJSTG.  'M 

Or  like  the  tinted  dew-bell,  seen  to  lie 
Upon  the  rose-leaf  tremblingly  at  rest, 
Then  softly  sinks  upon  its  opening  brea5t-~ 

So  sunk  her  eye,  while  firmly  she  replied, 
"  Since  no  appeal,  nor  plea  of  the  distress'd, 

To  Scotland's  court  may  come,  whate'er  betide, 

Thou  shah  not  drive  me  hence  till  I  am  satisfied'" 

6. 
0h,  many  an  eve  she  wander'd  round  the  rock, 

In  hopes  her  faithless  Minstrel  to  espy  ; 
And  many  a  time  to  dame  and  townsman  spoke^ 

With  blush  obtrusive,  and  with  question  shy 

But  nor  by  name,  by  garb,  by  minstrelsy, 
Nor  strict  discernment,  could  she  Mador  find. 

Her  fond  and  ardent  hopes  began  to  die  ; 
In  cheerless  apathy  with  all  mankind, 
She  only  wish'd  to  leave  the  world  an^  shame  be 
bind. 


tu  10  depart  and  seek  a  cheerless  home, 
Down  at  the  base  of  Strevline's  rock  she  la}  , 

iShe  wish'd  her  head  laid  in  the  peaceful  tomb  ! 
She  klss'd  her  boy,  but  word  she  could  not  say 
She  turn'd  her  eyes  to  heaven  in  act  to  pray— 

dh  hold  those  lips,  unused  to  give  offence  ! 
That  prayer  will  rise  in  wild  impassion'd  way, 

illow  have  thy  woes  arisen,  and  from  whence  ? 

Oh  search,  before  thcu  dar'st  accuse  Omninofeflce 


2^2  5IADOB  OF   THE   MOOR. 

8. 

Th©  worthy  Abbot  of  Dunfermline  came, 
He  mark'd  her  beauty,  and  he  heard  her  weep,; 

Silent  he  paused,  and  eyed  her  lovely  frame ; 
For  churchmen  aye,  observant  eye  do  keep 
On  female  beauty,  though  devotion  deep 

And  homilies  behove  the  holy  mood  ; 
From  rostrum  still  in  wily  guise  they  peep — 

^or  why  ? — by  them  tis  wisely  understood, 

That  to  admire  the  chief  of  all  Heaven's  works  Jsi 
good. 

9- 
The  Abbot  ne'er  had  look'd  on  face  so  meek ! 

The  pleasure  that  it  gave  was  mix'd  with  pain  ; 
He  saw  her  lift  her  full  blue  eyes  to  speak, 
She  only  sigh'd  and  cast  them  down  again, 
Then  view'd  her  babe,  while  tears  fell  down  like 
rain, 

Wiped  her  young  cheek,  and  back  her  ringlets 
threw. 
The  Abbot's  honest  bosom  heaved  amain ! 
A  look  60  lovely  ne'er  had  met  his  view  ; 
'Twas  like  a  forest  rose,  wet  with  untimely  dew, 

10. 

Question  respectful,  and  sincere  reply, 
Brought  on  a  long  and  earnest  conference  ; 

The  tale  was  told  of  Mador'e  perfidy, 
Which  thou  hast  Pieartf— but  still  on  some  Yire? 
tence 


THE    CHRISTENING.  203 

Of  treacherous  memory,  or  lost  incidents; 
The  Abbot  caused  her  tell  it  o'er  and  o'er ; 

Then  did  he  stand  in  long  and  deep  suspense; 
As  bent  some  dubious  mvstery  to  explore ; 
As  one  who  little  said;  but  thought  and  knew  much 
more. 

11. 

Still  did  his  eye  oppress  the  gentle  dame  ; 

Not  on  her  face,  but  arm,  it  seem'd  to  stay  ; 
She  ween'd  her  boy  did  this  attention  claim, 

And  set  his  cap,  and  don'd  his  overlay ; 

Then  watch'd  the  Abbot's  eye — but  not  that  wa 
It  seem'd  to  bend — A  trivial  ring  she  wore, 

Of  silver  framed,  neglected,  old,  and  gray, 
Warp'd  with  the  unknown  mysteries  of  yore  ; 
'Twas  on  that  ancient  ring  his  eye  directly  bore. 

12. 
''  Fair  dame,"  he  said,  ''did  thy  betrayer  leave 

No  token  of  his  faith,  nor  pledge  of  love  1 
Did  he,  like  knight,  no  ring  or  bracelet  give. 

Which  he  was  bound  to  challenge  or  approve?' 

Her  thought-bewilder'd  eyes  began  to  move 
Now  to  the  ring,  now  to  the  Abbot's  face  ; 

Faiut  recollections  o'er  their  lustre  wove 
A  still,  a  doubtful,  n.elancholy  grace — 
'"I'wus  like  an  April   sky,  wiiieh  dubious  shadcr-: 

embrace. 
Vol.  li.— 9 


■'.'04  MADOR  OF    THE    MOOR, 

1.:. 

She  spread  her  fair  hand  trembling  in  the  air— 
"  Save  that  old  ring,  no  other  pledge  have  I  , 

He  gave  it  in  moment  of  distracting  care, 
When  from  my  arms  and  danger  forced  to  fly 
Something  he  said,  but  of  what  tendency, 

Or  what  effect,  remembrance  ne'er  could  frame. 
From  the  device  I  nothing  may  imply, 

Nor  mark  it  bears,  unless  the  moulder's  nam?, 

Small  its  avail  to  mO;  nor  other  pledge  I  claim." 

14. 
A  glow  of  anger  flush'd  the  Abbot's  face ; 

He  knew  the  old  uisvalued  ring  full  wel!  ; 
A'iid  much  its  owner  wish'd  he  to  disgrace, 

For  he  was' generous,  but  shrewdly  iIbII. 

''  I'll  find  him  out,"  he  said  by  search  or  speli 
If  in  fair  Scotland  he  holds  rank  or  place  ; 

Remain  thou  here  till  lour  Sovereign  tell." 
Then  up  the  hill  he  strode  with  hurried  pace, 
And  left  the  lovely  dame  in  sad  uncertain  fase. 

15. 

■arce  was  he  gone  when  on  the  path  sl.e  saw^ 

That  leads  from  vale  of  Strevline  to  the  town, 
A  weary  wight  that  toward  her  did  draw, 

With  hanging  hose,  and  plaid  around  him  thrown; 

His  grizzled  locks  waved  o'er  his  cheek  so  brown; 
-he  thought  his  stoop  and  stride  too  well  slie  knew. 

His  mournful  eyes  to  earth  were  fixed  down, 
Save  when  a  transient  glance  he  upward  threw 
Where  Scotland's  palace  rose,  and  her  broad  ban- 
ners flew. 


THE  CHRISTENING.  265 

16. 

.siie  heard  him  mutter  vow  of  fell  revenge  ! 

Closer  to  earth  she  clung  in  fear  and  shamC; 
Resolved  nor  word  nor  look  with  him  to  change  ; 

But  all  unbrookable  as  nigh  he  came 

Her  hosom  yearn'd;  her  heart  was  in  a  flame. 
Feebly  she  cried,  "  My  father,  turn  this  way  !" 

Upstretch'd    the    stranger's    rough    uncourtly 
frame — 
'Twas  old  Kincraigy,  from  the  banks  of  Tay, 
Who  stood  like  statue  grim,  in  wild  and  doubtful 
way! 

17. 

That  painful  greeting  may  not  be  defined  ! 

Nature's  own  language  flow'd  from  either  tongue  ; 
Nor  fell  reproach,  nor  countenance  unkind, 
f  With  freezing  scowl,  above  their  soothings  hung  : 
Both  child  and  mother  to  his  bosom  clung  ; 
He  wiped  her  tears,  and  bade  from  grief  refrain  ; 
"  Thou  art  my  child,  and  thou   hast  suffer'd 
wrong, 
How  could'st  thou  leave  me,  prey  to  sharpest  pain  ? 
But  I  have  found  thee  now,  we  ne'er  shall  part  a- 
gain !" 

18. 

Straight  to  the  royal  hall  the  Abbot  went, 
Where  sat  the  king,  his  dames,  and  nobles  all ; 

Scarce  did  he  beckon,  scarce  his  brow  he  bent, 
But  raised  his  hand  their  sole  regard  to  call, 
And  thus  began,  while  silence  sway'd  the  hall  :— 

'•  My  Liege,  I  grieve  such  message  here  to  bring  ; 


206  MADOR  OF  THE  MOOR. 

But  now  there  waits  below  your  palace  wall 
The  loveliest  flower  that  ever  graced  the  spring, 
That  ever  mounted  throne,  or  shone  in  courtly  ring, 

19. 
••'  She  bears  a  form  of  such  delightful  mould, 

I  ween'd  before  me  sylvan  goddess  stood. 
Such  beauty  these  old  eyes  did  ne'er  behold  ! 

— Nay,  smile  not,  dames — for  by  the  blessed  rood 

That  I  aver  I  pledge  me  to  make  good. 
She's  Beauty's  self  j)ortray'Vl,  and  to  her  breast 

Is  prest  a  lovely  babe  of  playful  mood. 
She  has  been  wrong'd,  betray 'd  and  sore  oppress'd, 
And,  could  a  heart  believe ! — the  traitor  here  is 
guest." 

20. 

The  king  was  wroth,  and  rose  from  off  his  throne, 
Look'd  round  for  flush  of  guilt,  then   raised  his 
hand  : 

*'  By  this!"  said  he,  "  the  knight  that  so  hath  done 
Shall  reparation  make,  or  quit  the  land, 
I  hold  not  light  the  crime,  and  do  command 

A  full  relation — He  who  can  betray 

Such  beauty,  with  false  vow,  and  promise  bland, 

As  lieve  will  dupe  his  king  in  treacherous  way. 

The  ruthless  traitor's  name,  and  hers,  good  Abbot, 
say." 

21. 

"  Then  art  my  genrous  king  !"  the  Abbot  cried, 
"  And  Heaven  will  bless  thee  for  this  just  award  , 

This  feeble  arm  of  mine  hath  erst  been  tried, 
And  for  the  injured  has  a  foeman  dared  ; 


THE  CHRISTEXI5G.  20? 

And  should  the  knight  your  mandate  disregard. 
"Tis  old  and  nerveless  now,  and  small  its  power, 

But  all  his  skill  its  vengeance  shall  not  ward — 
Beshrew  his  heart,  but  he  shall  rue  the  hour  ! — 
The  knight  is  Mador  hig-ht,  the  dame  fair  Ila  Moore. 

22. 
As  ever  you  saw  the  chambers  of  the  west.     "*• 

When  summer  suns  bad  journeyd  to  the  main, 
Now  sallow  pale,  now  momently  oppress'd. 

With  crimson  flush,  the  prelude  of  the  rain, 

So   look'd  the   king;   and    p*°r^'r)'d   and   scowlM 
amain, 
To  stay  the  Abbot's  speech,  who  deign'd  no  heed. 

But  did,  with  shai-pest  acritude,  arraign 
The  low  deceit,  the  doer  and  the  deed. 
And  lauded  much  the  king  for  that  he  had  decreed- 

23. 

"  I  think  I  know  ihe  wight,"  the  king  replied  ; 

"  He  is  abash'd,  and  will  not  own  it  now  ; 
But  my  adjudgment  shall  be  rati6ed, — 

A  king  hath  vow'd,  and  must  not  break  bis  vow." 

Then  look'd  he  round.with  smooth  deceitful  bron 
As  he  the  mark  of  conscious  guilt  had  seen  ; 

Then,  with  majestic  air  and  motion  slow, 
Walk'd  with  the  Abbot  forth  into  the  green  ; 
But  all  unknown  the  strain  of  converse  them  be- 
tween. 

The  Abbot  hasted  to  his  lovely  ward — 
Judge  of  hie  false  conjecture  and  alarms. 


208  MADOR  OF   THE   MOOR. 

When  he  beheld  this  nymph  of  high  regard 
So  fondly  folded  in  a  stranger's  arms. 
But  Oh.  how  much  they  added  to  her  charms 

The  filial  tears  adown  her  che«k  that  ran  ; 
The  kindest  glow  the  human  heart  that  warms . 

Play'd  o'er  the  visage  of  the  holy  man  ; 

While  he,  to  sooth  his  guests,  an  artful  tale  began. 

25. 
He  led  them  to  his  home  of  peace  the  while, 

Where  all  was  rich,  yet  all  in  simple  guise^ 
And  strove  with  cheerful  converse  to  beguile 

Each  latent  fear  and  sorrowful  surmise. 

Well  skiird  to  read,  in  language  of  the  eyes, 
What  the  still  workings  of  the  heart  might  be. 

He  bade  her  don  those  robes  of  courtly  guise. 
For  they  were  hers,  a  gift  bestowed  free, 
And  ere  the  fall  of  night  her  Minstrel  she  might  see 

26. 

When  from  the  chamber  she  return'd,  array'd 

In  braided  silk  and  rich  embroidery. 
The  Abbot  rose,  confounded  and  dismay'd. 

And  old  Kincraigy  nigh  had  bent  his  kneC; 

An  earthly  form  she  scarcely  seem'd  to  be, 
Such  dazzling  beauty  neither  once  had  seen. 

"Fair  dame,  a  lady  thou  may'st  shortly  be,"' 
Said  the  good  Abbot,  with  enraptured  mien, 
••'  But  Nature  meant  thee  more,  she  form'd  thec 
for  a  queen !" 


THE   CHRISTEXIKG.  209 

27. 
Scarce  bad  she  answer  with  a  blush  assay 'd, 

Scarce  raised  th'  astonish'd  babe  unto  her  breast, 
When  enter'd  Mador,,  with  a  look  that  said 

His  heart  was  generous,  and  his  roind  oppress'd. 

His  minstrel  garb  he  wore,  and  purple  crest — 
Naught  of  his  woodland  flower  he  could  espy  ! 

But  one  who  on  a  silken  couch  did  rest, 
That  seena'd  some  form  of  eastern  deity  ! 
The  Minstrel  bow'd  full  low,  while  wonder  dimm'd 
his  eye. 

28. 
Tiie  shifting  hues  that  sported  o'er  her  face 

Were  like  the  streamers  of  the  rosy  eve, 
And  to  her  beauty  lent  a  nameless  grace — 

Those  blushes  could  not  Mador  undeceive  '. 

His  fancy  made  no  motion  to  believe 
That  e'er  his  highland  maid  had  half  the  charms. 

Till  the  good  Abbot  did  his  mind  relieve, 
In  pity  of  a  female's  fond  alarms, 
••'What,  my  first  love!''  he  cried,  and  sprung  into 
her  arras. 

29. 
He  kiss'd  her  lips,  he  kiss'd  her  burning  cheek, 

Caress'd  her  young  son  in  the  fondest  way, 
A  chain  of  gold  was  hung  around  her  neck. 

And  diamond  bracelets  shed  the  sparkling  ray  ; 

Such  kind  and  fond  endearment  did  he  pay, 
The  Abbot  scarce  from  weeping  could  refrain. 

Naught  good  or  bad  could  old  Kiacraigy  say, 


:10 


MADOR  OF    TM£    MOOR. 


The  farthest  corner  did  his  brow  sustain, 
And  when  they  spoke  to  him  lie  could  not  speak 
again. 

30. 
"  Thou  shah  be  mine/'  the  generous  Minstrel  said  ; 

"  If  I  had  known  my  love's  unhappy  state, 
Not  all  the  land  my  presence  should  have  staid  ! 

Thou  hast  been  injured,  and  ray  blame  is  great '. 

This  night  the  holy  Abbot  we'll  entreat 
To  join  our  hands,  then  art  thou  doubly  mine  ; 

Then  hie  thee  back  to  Tay,  for  I  must  wait 
Our  Sovereign's  will  ;  but  do  not  thou  repine, 
For  all   thy  native  hills,  from  Tay  to  Bran,  aie 
thine. 

3L 
"  I  have  some  favour  with  our  Monarch's  ear. 

And  he  hath  kindly  granted  my  request ; 
3f  this  our  son  his  royal  name  may  bear, 

That  his  shall  be  an  earldom  of  the  best. 

I  have  his  signet,  and  his  high  behest 
To  turn  the  ruthless  Albert  to  the  door  : 

The  royal  bounds,  that  border  to  the  west, 
He  grants  thee  too — these  all  are  thine  secure, 
And  every  dame  on  Tay  shall  stoop  to  Tla  Moore. 

32. 
"  Haply  to  distant  land  I  now  may  roam, 

But  next  when  summer  flowers  the  highland  les . 
I  will  return,  and  seek  my  woodland  home 

Within  the  bowers  of  sweet  Kinnaird  with  thee. 


THE   CHRISTENING.  211 

There  is  a  lowly  spot  beneath  the  tree, 
O'ershadow'd  by  the  cliff— thou  know'st  it  well ; 

In  that  sweet  solitude  our  cot  shall  be  ; 
There  first  we  loved,  and  there  in  love  we'll  dwell, 
And  long,  long  shall  it  stand,  a  Minstrel's  faith  to 
tell. 

33, 
*'  When  summer  eve  hath  wove  her  silken  skreen 

Her  fairy  net-work  of  the  night  and  day, 
Hath  tipt  with  flame  the  cone  of  mountain  green. 

And  dipt  the  red  sun  in  the  springs  of  Tay, 

How  sweet  with  thee  above  the  cliff  to  stay, 
And  see  the  evening  stretch  her  starry  zone  ! 

Or  shaded  from  the  sun's  meridian  ray, 
Lie  stretch'd  upon  the  lap  of  greenwood  lone  ! 
Oh  happier  shalt  thou  be  for  sorrows  undergone  ;" 

34. 

Their  hands  were  join'd — a  mother's  heart   was 
blest  ! 
Her  son  was  christen'd  by  his  sovereign's  name ; 
In  gold  and  scarlet  the  young  imp  was  dress'd, 
A  tair  on  his  head  of  curious  frame. 
But  ne'er  on  earth  was  seen  a  minqprel's  dame 
Shine  in  such  beauty,  and  such  rich  array  ! 

An  hundred  squires,  and  fifty  maidens  came 
Riding  an  palfreys,  sporting  all  the  way, 
To  guard  this  splendid  dame  home  to   her  native 
Tay. 

35. 

^Jeeds  not  to  sing  of  after  joys  that  fell, 
Of  vears  of  glory  and  felicity  ; 
9^^ 


,'i2  MADOR   OF   THE   MOOK. 

Needs  not  on  time  and  circumstance  to  dwell. - 
All  who  have  heard  of  maid  of  low  degree,- 
Hight  Ha  Moore,  up-raised  in  dignity 

And  rank  all  other  Scottish  dames  above, 
May  well  conceive  who  Mador  needs  must  bt- 

And  trace  the  winding  mysteries   of  his  love. 

To  such  my  tale  is  told,  and  such  will  it  approve 


CONCLUSION. 


RETURN,  rny  Harp,  unto  the  Border  dale. 

Thy  native  green  hill,  and  thy  fairy  ring  ; 
No  more  thy  murmurs  on  the  Grampian  gale 

May  wake  the  hind  in  covert  slumbering, 

Nor  must  thy  proud  and  far-outstretched  string 
Presume  to  renovate  the  northern  song, 

Wakening  the  echoes  Ossian  taught  to  sing  ; 
Their  sleep  of  ages  still  they  must  prolong, 
Till  son  inspired  is  born  their  native  hills  among. 

Loved  was  the  voice  that  woo'd  from  Yarrow  boAv- 
ers 

Thy  truant  flight  to  that  entrancing  clime  ; 
■She  ween'd  thy  melody  and  tuneful  powers, 

Mellow'd  by  custom,  and  matured  by  time, 

Or  that  the  sounds  and  energies  sublime^ 
That  darkly  dwell  by  cataract  and  steep. 

Would  rouse  anew  thy  visionary  chime, 
Too  long  by  southland  breezes  lulPd  asleep. 
Oh  may  she  well  approve  thy  wild  and  wandering 
sweep  ! 


214  3IAD0R  OF    THF  MOOR. 

Should  her  fair  hand  bestow  the  earliest  bays. 
Although  proud  Learning  lift  the  venora'd  eyi 

Still  shalt  thou  warble  strains  of  other  days, 
Struck  by  some  tuneful  spirit  lingering  nigh  , 
'Till  those,  who  long  have  pass'd  derisive  by. 

Shall  list  to  hear  thy  tones  when  newly  strung, 
And  Scottish  maidens  over  thee  shall  sigh, 

When  I  am  all  un-named  by  human  tongue, 

And  thy  enchanted  chords   by   other  hands 


HE   ENr» 


SONGS. 


S  O  N  G  S, 


THE  BOGLES. 


Tune — Logic  o'  Buclian. 

MY  bonny  Eliza  is  fled  frae  the  town, 

An''  left  her  poor  Jamie  her  loss  to  bemoan  ; 

To  me  'tis  a  sad  an'  lamentable  day  ; 

For  the  bogles  have  chas'd  my  Eliza  away. 

The  Lowlands  may  weep,,  and  the  Highlands  may 

smile, 
in  welcome  to  her  that's  the  flower  of  our  isle  : 
It's  all  for  thy  honour,  ambitious  Tay, 
That  the  bogles  have  chas'd  my  Eliza  away. 

There's  ae  bitter  thought  has  gi'en  memuckle  pain. 

I  fear  1  will  nerer  behold  her  again  ; 

I  canna  get  quit  o't,  by  night  nor  by  day, 

Since  the  bogles  have  chas'd  my  Eliza  away. 

O,  sweet  may  the  breeze  be  her  mountains  be- 
tween 

And  sweet  be  her  walks  thro'  her  woodlands  so 
green ! 

And  sweet  be  the  murmurs  of  fair  winding  Tay  - 

■Since,  the  bogles  bare  chas'd  my  Eliza  away ! 


218  SOxNGS. 

I  love  lier  ;  I  own  it,  I  own  it  again  ; 
If  I  had  two  friends  on  earth,  she  was  ane  : 
And  now  I  can  neither  be  cheerfu'  nor  gay, 
Since  the  bogles  have  chas'd  ray  Eliza  away- 
May  Heaven  in  kindness  long  shelter  my  flower. 
So  admir-d  by  the  rich  and  belov'd  by  the  poor, 
Whose  blessing  will  cheer  her  sweet  bosom  for  ay^ 
No  fairy,  nor  bogle  will  chase  it  away. 


BONNY  JEAN. 

TnwG— Prince  WiUiam  Henrij's  Delight. 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  my  b©nny  bird, 

The  sang  ye  sang  yestreen,  O, 
When  here,  aneath  the  hawthorn  wild, 

I  met  by  bonny  Jean  O. 
My  blude  ran  prinklin'  through  my  veins 

My  hair  began  to  steer,  O  ; 
My  heart  play'd  deep  against  my  breast  1 

As  I  beheld  my  dear,  O. 

O  weels  me  on  my  happy  lot 

O  weels  me  on  my  deare  ! 
O  weels  me  on  the  charmin"  spot. 

Where  a'  combin'd  to  cheer  me  ! 
The  mavis  liltit  on  the  bush, 

The  lavrock  on  the  green,  O ; 
The  lily  bloom'd,  the  daisy  blush'd . 

But  a'  was  nought  to  Jean,  O. 


SONGS.  -219 

•Sing  on,  sing  on,  my  bonny  thrusii. 

Be  neither  flee'd  nor  eerie  ; 
I'll  wad  your  love  sits  in  the  bush^ 

That  gars  ye  sing  sae  cheery  : 
»She  may  be  kind,  she  may  be  sweet. 

She  may  be  neat  an'  clean,  O  ; 
But  O  she's  but  adry^ome  mate, 

Corapar'd  wi'  bonny  Jean,  O. 

If  love  wad  open  a'  her  stores 

An'  a'  her  bloomin'  treasures, 
An'  bid  me  rise,  an'  turn,  an'  choice. 

An'  taste  her  chiefest  pleasures  ; 
My  choice  v/ad  be  the  rosy  check, 

The  modest  beamin'  eye,  O  ; 
The  yellow  hair,  the  bosom  fair. 

The  lips  o'  coral  dye,  O. 

A  bramble  shade  around  her  head, 

A  burine  poplin'  by,  O  ; 
Our  bed  the  swaird,  our  sheet  the  plaid. 

Our  Cp.nopy  the  sky,  O. 
An'  here's  the  burn,  an'  there's  the  bush 

Around  the  fiowrie  green,  O  ; 
An'  this  the  plaid,  an'  sure  the  lass 

V/ad  be  my  bonny  Jean,  O. 

Hear  me,  tliou  bonny  modest  moon  '. 

Ye  sternies  twinklin'  high,  O  ! 
An'  a'  ye  gentle  powers  aboon, 

Thet  roam  athwart  the  sky,  O  : 
Ve  s?e  me  gratefu'  for  the  past, 

Ye  saw  me  blest  yestreen,  O  ; 
An'  ever  'till  I  breathe  my  last 

Ye'll  see  me  true  to  Jean,  O 


•:j20  songs. 


BONNY  LEEZY 


Tune— OV?-  the  Muir  aiming  the  Heather. 

Though  I've  enjoy'd  my  youth  in  health,. 

An'  liv'fl  a  life  both  free  an'  easy  ; 
Yet  real  delight  I  never  felt 

Until  I  saw  my  bonny  Leezy. 
I've  seen  the  Athol  birk  sae  fair 

The  mountain  pine,  an'  simple  daisy  ; 
But  nought  I've  seen  can  e'er  compare 

Wi'  the  modest  gracefu'  form  o'  Leezy. 

I've  seen  the  hare  trip  o'er  the  dale, 

The  lamb  upon  the  lee  sae  gaily  ; 
But  when  young  Leezy  trips  the  vale, 

For  lively  ease,  she  dings  them  fairly. 
Her  een,  the  dew-draps  o'  the  morn  ! 

Hac  gi'en  my  heart  an  unco'  heezy  ; 
It  canna  be.  that  pride  or  scorn 

Can  lodge  within  the  breast  o'  Leezy, 

I  winna  greet,  I  winna  dee, 

Though  love  made  me  something  reezy  ; 
But  mirth  shall  ne'er  gang  down  wi'  me 

If  aught  befa'  my  bonny  Leezy. 
When  her  an'  I  to  rest  are  gane. 

May  shepherds  strew  our  graves  wi'  daisy 
And  when  o'er  us  they  make  their  maen, 

.'\  ye  join  my  name  wi'  bonny  Leezy  I 


SONGS.  221 

NOW  WELL  !\L\Y  I. 

Tune — Jackij  Latin. 

Now  well  may  I  the  haunts  defy. 

Where  love  unlicensed  reigned,  O  ; 
Where  sense  is  pall'd  an'  conscience  gall'd. 

And  Nature's  laws  prcfan'd,  O  ; 
In  yonder  wood,  above  the  flood, 

Conceal'd  frae  ilka  eye,  O, 
Forby  the  the  bat,  an'  beaming  wain. 

That  slowly  wheels  on  high,  O. 

Where  blooms  the  brier,  gie  me  ray  dear 

In  Innocence  to  woo,  O  ; 
And  ilka  care  on  earth  I'll  leave 

This  blessing  to  pursue,  O. 
Though  trouble?  rise  and  wars  increase, 

And  disconents  prevail,  O, 
We  laugh  and  sing,  and  love  our  king, 

'Till  strength  and  vigour  fail,  O. 


THE  SHEEP-SHEARL\G. 

Tune — Bung  your  eije  V  the  Morning. 

The  morning  was  fair,  and  the  firmament  sheen  ; 
The  valley  was  fresh,  and  themouutain  was  green. 
When  bonny  young  Jean,  of  our  maidens  the  queen , 
Went  over  the  dale  to  the  shearing. 


222  SONGS. 

Her  form  was  so  fair,  it  was  rather  divine  ; 
The  rose  leaf  and  lily  her  features  entwine  ; 
Her  lip  was  the  clover-flower  moisten'd  with  wine, 
Her  manner  was  sweet  and  endearing. 

Her  voice  was  the  music,  so  tuneful  and  true  ; 
Her  hair  was  the  suu-beam  ;  her  eye  was  the  dew, 
The  mirror  where  love  did  his  image  review, 

And  smile  at  the  shadow  so  pleasing. 
The  knight,  who  was  there  at  the  shearing  the  ewes, 
Says,  "Farmer,  your  daughter's  a  beautiful  rose  j" 
Then  up  to  Miss  Jeany  he  in?tantly  goes. 

And  kiss'd  her,  and  aye  would  he  teasing. 

He  led  her  and  toy'd  with  her  all  the  long  day. 

And  gave  her  a  ring  set  with  jewels  so  ^ay  : 

"'  O  !  meet  me,  my  dear,"  he  would  pressingly  say, 

"  This  night  in  the  bower  by  the  river." 
•'  I'll  ask  at  ray  father,"  young  Jeany  replies  ; 
'  I  fain  would  be  with  you  ;  but  if  he  denies" — 
•'  Ah  !  pray  do  not  tell  him"  said  he,  with  surprise, 

"  And  I'll  love  you,  my  Jeany,  for  ever." 

•  But  what,  my  dear  sir,  are  you  wanting  with  me  ? 
I'll  never  do  aught  but  my  father  may  see  ; 
He'll  never  refuse  to  entrust  me  with  thee 

From  evening  'till  dawn  of  the  morn'ng." 
She  cries — "  My  dear  fatlier,  the   knight  and  your 

Jean 
This  night  are  to  meet  in  the  woodlands  so  green, 
To  kiss  and  to  prattle,  by  mortal  unseen, 
From  evening  'till  dawn  of  the  morning." 

The  knight  was  abash'd.and  the  father  look'd  sour  ; 
•'  He  mocks  you,  my  jewel,  go  not  tg  the  bower." 


SONGS.  223 

*'  Then,  sir,  I'm  sorry  'tis  out  of  my  power 

To  meet  you  this  night  by  the  river. 
I'll  always  be  proud  of  your  gay  company, 
When  my  father  permits  I  will  v.  ait  upon  thee.'' 
Then  light  as  a  lamb,  she  skipp'd  over  the  lee, 

And  left  the  poor  knight  in  a  fever. 

"  I  ne'er  saw  a  creature  so  lovely  and  sly  , 
Confound  me  if  ever  I  saw  such  an  eye  I 
But  every  contiivauce  in  life  I  will  try 

To  catch  her  alone  by  the  river." 
But  all  was  in  vain,  she  evaded  him  still. 
Yet  always  received  him  with  "kindest  good  will. 
And  now  she's  the  lady  of  Merleton-hill, 

And  lovely  and  loving  as  ever. 


HOW  FOOLISH  ARE  MANKIND. 


I'uae — The  lone  Vale. 

How  foolish  are  mankind,  to  look  for  perfection 

In  any  poor  changling  under  the  sun  ! 
By  nature,  or  habit,  or  want  of  reflection, 

To  vices  or  folly  we  heedlessly  run. 
The  man  who  is  modest  and  kind  in  his  nature. 

And  open  and  cheerful  in  every  degree  ; 
Who  feels  for  the  woes  of  his  own  fellow-creature, 

Though  subject  to  failings  is  dear  unto  me; 


224  SONGS. 

Far  dearer  to  rae  is  the  humble  ewe-gowan,. 
The  sweet  native  violet,  or  bud  of  the  broom, 
Than  fine-foster'd  flowers  in  the  garden  a-growing, 

Though   sweet  be  their  savour  and  bonny  their 
bloom. 
Far  dearer  to  me  is  the  thrush  or  the  linnet, 

Than  any  fine  bird  from  a  far  foreign  tree ; 
And  dearer  my  lad,  with  his  plaid  and  blue  bonnet . 

Than  all  our  rich  nobles  or  lords  that  I  see, 


I   -MY  DEAR  LITTLE  JEANY 


Air — Lack  o'  Goivd. 

My  dear  little  Jeany,  what  maks  ye  sae  shy 
An'  saucy  wi'  Charley,  whase  horses  an"  kye 
Gang  wide  on  the  meadow,  his  ewes  on  the  lee  ^ 
An'  where  will  you  see  sic  a  laddie  as  he  ?'' 
'•  Ah  !  father,  if  ye  kend  him  as  weel  as  I, 
How  ye  wad  despise  him,  his  ewes  an'  his  kye ! 
Whene'er  we're  our  lane,  on  the  meadow  or  hill. 
Ilk  word  an'  ilk  action  is  tendin'  to  ill. 

But  Jamie's  sae  modest,  that  him  I  maun  ruse  : 
He'll  beg  tor  a  kiss,  which  I  canna  refuse  : 
He  ne'er  gies  a  look  that  a  lassie  needs  fear, 
Nor  y€t  says  a  word  but  the  warld  may  hear. 


SONGS,  ::: 

I  ken,  my  dear  father,  ye  likerne  sae  weei; 
That  naethin;^:  frae  you  I  can  ever  conceal : 
Young  Charley  is  handsome  and  gallant  to  see  ; 
But  Jamie,  though  poorer  is  dearer  to  me." 

"  My  sweet  little  Jeany  !  the  pride  o'  my  age  ! 
Oh,  how  I'm  delighted  to  hear  you  sae  sage  ! 
The   forward,   who   maks   the  young   maiden   h 

prey, 
1<  often  care3t,and  the  good  sent  away. 
I  like  ye,  my  Jeany,  as  dear  as  my  life  ; 
Ye've  been  a  kind  daughter,  sae  will  ye  a  wife. 
Then  gree  wi'  your  Jamie  when  he  comes  again 
From  this  time  I'll  count  liim  a  son  o'  my  ain." 


DOCTOR  MONRO. 


Tune — Humours  o'  Gloi. 

"  Dear  Doctorbe  clever,  and  fling  off  your  beaver 

Come  bleed  me,  and  blister  me,  do  not  be  slow  : 
I'm  sick,  I'm  exhausted,  my   schemes   they  arc 
blasted, 

And  all  driven  heels-o'er-head.  Doctor  Monro." 
•  Be  patient,  dear  fellow,  you  foster  your  ie\QT  ; 

Pray  what's  the  misfortune  that  bothers  you  so,' 
'•  O,  Doctor!  I'm  ruin'd  !  I'm  ruin'd  forever! 

■\Iv  lass  has  forsaken  me.  Doctor  Monro; 


226  SONGS. 

I  meant  to  have  married,  and  tasted  the  pleasures. 

The  sweets,  the  enjoyments,  in  vredloekthat  flow  ; 
But  she's  taen  another,  and  broken  my  measures. 

And  fairly  confounded  me,  Doctor  Monro." 
'*'  I'll  bleed,  and  I'll  blister  you,  over  and  over  ; 

I'll  master  your  malady  e'er  that  I  go  : 
But  raise  up  your  head  from  below  the  bedcover. 

And  give  some  attention  to  Doctor  Monro. 

If  Christy   had  wed  you,  she  would  have  raisko 
you, 
And  laugh'd  at  your  love  with  some    handsonii 
young  beau, 
Her  conduct  will  prove  it ;  but  how  would  you  lov 
it?" 
"  I  soon    would   have  lam'd   her,  dear  Doctor 
Monro.-'" 
*•'  Each  year  brings  a  pretty  young  son  or  a  daugli- 
ter ; 
Perhaps  you're  the   father  ;    but  how   shall  yo; 
know  ? 
You  hug  them —  her  gallant  is  bursting  with  laugl; 
ter'"— 
•  That   thought's   like   to   murder    me,    Docto. 
3Ionro.".  - 

••  The  boys  cost  you  many  a  penny  and  shilling  ; 
You  breed  them  with  pleasure,  with  trouble  and 
wo  : 
But  one  turns  a  rake,  and  another  a  villain." — 

•'  My  heart  could  not  bear  it,  dear  Doctor  Monro.'' 
"  The  lasses  are  comel}-^,  and  dear  to  your  bosom  ; 
But  Tirtue  and  beauty  has  many  a  foe  ! 


SONG6.  227 

0  think  what  may  happen,  just  uipi  iu  their  blos- 

som !" — 
'•'Ah!  merciful  Heaven  1  cease.  Doctor  Monro.'" 

Dear  Doctor.,  I'll  thank  vou   to   hand   me  my 

breeches  ; 
I'm  better ;  I'll  drink  with  you  ere  that  you  go 
I'll  never  more  sicken  for  women  or  riches. 
But  love  my  relations  and  Doctor  Monro. 

1  plainly  perceive,  were  I  wedded  to  Christy. 

3Iy  peace  and  my  pleasures  I  needs  must  fore- 
go.'' 
He  still  lives  a  bachelor  ;  drinks  when  he's  thirsty 
And  sings  like  a  lark,  and  loves  Doctor  Mouro. 


LOVE  S  LIKE  A  DIZZINESS. 

Tune — Paddy's   Wedding. 
I  LATELY  liv'din  quiet  case. 

An.,  never  wish'd  to  marry,  O  ; 
But  when  I  saw  my  Peggy's  face, 

I  felt  a  sad  quandary,  O. 
fi.ough  wild  as  ony  Athol  deer, 

She  has  trepan'd  me  fairly,  O  , 
Her  cherry  cheeks,  an'  een  sae  clear. 

Harass  me  late  an'  early,  O. 

O .'  love!  love!  laddie. 

Lovers  like  a  dizziness .' 
It  winiia  let  a  pair  boddtj 
Gang  about  his  business  ! 

,0  tell  my  feats  this  single  week 

Wad  make  a  curious-diary..  O  ; 
Vm     IT._10 


;::28  SO.NGS. 

I  drave  my  carl  against  a  dyke. 

BIy  horses  in  a  miry,  O  : 
I  wear  my  stockings  white  an'  bhie. 

My  love's  sae  fierce  an  fiery,  O  . 
I  drill  the  land  that  I  should  plough, 

An' plough  the  drills  entirely,  O  — O!  love!  ^'c 

Soon  as  the  dawn  had  brought  the  day, 

I  went  to  theek  the  stable,  O  ; 
I  coost  my  coat,  an'  ply'd  away 

As  fast  as  I  was  able,  O. 
I  wrought  a'  morning  out  an'  out,. 

As  Fd  been  reddin  fire,  O  ; 
When  I  had  done,  and  look'd  about, 

Gude  faith  it  was  the  byre,  OI— O .'  iove  I  4'<- 

Her  wily  glance  I'll  ne'er  forget ; 

The  dear,  the  lovely  blinkin'  o't, 
Has  pierc'd  me  through  an'  through  the  heart. 

An'  plagues  me  wi'  the  prinklin'  o't. 
I  try'd  to  sing,  I  try'd  to  pray, 

I  try'd  to  drown't  wi'  drinkin'  o't  ; 
1  try'd  wi'  toil  to  driv't  away,  [^'c. 

But  ne'er  can  sleep  for  thinkin'  o't. — O !  Icvi 

Were  Peggy's  love  to  hire  the  job, 

An'  save  my  heart  frae  breakin',  O. 
I'd  put  a  girdle  round  the  globe, 

Or  dive  in  Corryvrekin,  O  ; 
Gr  howk  a  grave  at  midninght  dark 

In  yonder  vault  sae  eerie,  O  ; 
Or  gang  an'  spier  for  MungoPark 

Through  Africa  sae  dreary,  O. — 0/  lovt!  4?' 

Ye  little  ken  what  pains  I  prove! 
Or  how  severe  my  plisky,  O  ! 


SONGS. 

I  swear  I'm  sairer  drunk  wi'  love 
Than  e'er  I  was  wi"  whisky,  O  1 

For  love  has  rak'd  me  fore  an"  aft, 
I  scarce  can  lift  a  leggy,  O  : 

r  first  grew  dizzy,  then  gaed  dafr. 

An'  now  I'll  dee  for  Peggy,  O. —  O!  Iwe: 


AULD  ETTRICK  JOHN, 

Tune — Rothiemurchus'  Rant. 

I'here  dwalt  a  man  on  Ettrick  side, 

An  honest  man  I  wot  was  he  ; 
ilis  name  was  John,  and  he  was  born 

A  year  afore  tiie  threlty-three, 
He  wad  a  wife  when  he  was  youngs 

But  she  had  diet,  an'  John  was  wae  , 
lie  wantit  lang,  at  length  did  gang 

To  court  the  lassie  o'  the  brae. 

\Lild  John  cam  daddin'  down  the  hill, 

His  arm  was  waggin  manfullie  ;  ; 
He  thought  his  shadow  look'd  na  ill, 

As  aft  he  keek'd  aside  to  see. 
His  shoon  war  four  pound  weight  a-plece. 

On  ilka  leg  a  ho  had  he  ; 
His  doublet  Strang  was  large  an"  lang, 

His  breeks  they  hardly  reach'd  his  knee. 

His  coat  was  thread-about  wi'  green. 
The  mouds*  had  wrought  it  muckle  harm 

The  pouches  war  an  ell  atween, 
The  cuft'  was  faldit  up  the  arm, 

'  yionds^Meths. 


230  SONGS. 

He  wore  a  bonnet  on  his  head, 
The  bung  upon  his  shoulders  lay. 

An'  by  the  neb  ye  wad  hae  red 
That  Jonnie  view'd  the  milky  way. 

But  yet  for  a'  his  antic  dress, 

His  cheeks  wi'  healthy  red  did  glo^^ 
His  joints  war  knit,  an'  firm  like  brass, 

Though  siller  grey  his  head  did  grow. 
.\.n'  John,  although  he  had  nae  lands. 

Had  twa  gude  kye  amang  the  knowes 
A  hunder  pund  i"  honest  hands. 

An'  sas-an'-thretty  doddit  yowes. 

\n'  Nelly  was  a  bonny  lass, 

Fu'  sweet  an'  ruddy  was  her  mou'  ; 
Her  een  war  like  twa  beads  o'  glass, 

Her  brow  was  white  like  Cheviot  woo  : 
Her  cheeks  were  bright  as  heather-bell.?, 

Her  bosom  like  December  snaw, 
Her  teeth  as  pure  as  eggs-s  shells, 

Her  hair  was  like  the  hoddy  craw. 

'•  Gudewife,"  quo'  John,  as  he  sat  down, 

"  I'm  come  to  court  your  daugliter  Nell 
An'  if  I  die  immediately. 

She  sail  hae  a"  the  gear  hersel. 
An'  if  I  chance  to  hae  a  son, 

I'll  breed  him  up  a  braw  divine  ; 
An'  if  ilk  wish  turn  out  a  wean. 

There's  little  fear  that  we  hae  nine.' 

Now  Nelly  thought,  an'  aye  she  leugh. 

"  Our  lads  are  a'  for  sogers  gane  ; 
Young  Tarn  will  kiss  an'  toy  eneugh. 

Rut  he  o'  marriage  talketh  nane. 


SONGS.  -i-'l 

When  I  am  laid  in  Johnnie's  bed, 
Like  hares  or  lav'rocks  I'll  be  free  ; 

I'll  busk  me  braw  an'  eonquer  a'. — 
Auld  Johnnie's  just  the  man  for  mo." 

Wi'  little  say  he  wan  the  day, 

She  soon  became  his  bonny  bride  ; 
But  ilk  a  joy  is  fled  away 

Frae  Johnnie's  canty  ingle  side. 
She  frets,  an'  greets  an'  visits  aft, 

In  hopes  some  lad  will  see  her  hame 
But  never  ane  will  be  sae  daft 

As  tent  auld  Johnnies'  flisUy  dame. 

An  John  will  be  a  gaishen  soon  ; 

His  teeth  are  frae  their  sockets  flown 
The  hair's  peel'd  aft'his  head  aboon  ; 

His  face  is  milk-an'- water  grown  : 
His  le^s,  that  firm  like  pillir=  stood, 

Are  now  grown  toom  an'  nnco  sma" ; 
She's  reav'd  him  sair  o'  flesh  an'  blood . 

An'  peace  o'  mind — the  warst  ava. 

Let  ilk  a  lassie  tak  a  man, 

An'  ilk  a  callan  tak  a  wife ; 
But  youth  wi'  youth  gae  hand  in  hand. 

Or  time  the  sweetest  joys  o'  life. 
Ye  men  wha's  heads  are  turnin'  gray,. 

Wha  to  the  grave  are  hastin'  on, 
Let  reason  aye  j'our  passions  sway, 

An'  mind  the  fate  o'  Ettrick  John, 

An'  a'  ye  lasses  plump  an'  fair. 

Let  pure  affection  guide  your  hand,. 
Nor  stoop  to  lead  a  life  o'  care, 

Wi'  wither'd  age,  for  gear  or  land. 


332  SONGS.  : 

When  iika  lad  your  beauty  slights .  j 

An'  ilka  smile  shall  yield  to  wae, 
Ye'll  mind  the  lang  an'  lanesome  nights 

O'  Nell,  the  lassie  o'the  brae. 


BONNY  BEETY. 

Tune — Tow  row  row. 

'•  I  WAS  a  weaver;  young  an'  free, 

Sae  frank  an  cherry  aye  to  meet  wi', 
Until  wi'  ane  unwary  e'e 
Iview'd  the  charms  o'  Bonny  Beety. 
Lack  a  day 
Far  away 
Will  I  gae, 
If  I  lose  her. 

I  tauld  her  I  had  got  a  wound 

Through  sark  an'  waistcoat  frae  her  sweet 
.She  said  it  ne'er  should  do't  again, 
An'  off  like  lightning  flew  my  Beety. 
Luckless  day  ! 
May  I  say, 
When  my  way 
Led  to  Beety. 

Ae  day  she  cam  we'  hanks  o'yarn, 

When  wi'  my  wark  my  face  was  sweety 
She  said  I  was  a  chrieshy  thief, 
An'  ne'er  should  get  a  kiss  o'  Beety. 
Oho,  iio,  hon  ; 
Now  I'm  gone, 
Love  has  pro'en 
A  weaver's  ruin. 


SONGS.  23^ 

She  lauglis  at  me  an'  at  my  loom, 

An'  wi'  the  herd  has  made  a  treaty  ; 
But  wae  hght  on  his  clouted  shoon, 
How  durst  he  e'er  attempt  my  Beety  ? 
O  how  Blind, 
Eyes  an'  mind, 
Woman  kind 
Are  to  their  profit 

But  hy  my  shuttle  now  I  swear, 

An'  by  my  beam,  if  Wattie  meet  me, 
I'll  cut  his  throat  frae  ear  to  ear, — 
I'll  loose  my  life  or  gain  my  Beety. 
Blood  an'  guts 
Jades  an'  sluts 
I'll  loose  my  wit3, 
If  I  lose  Beety." 

rhus  sang  the  weaver  at  his- his  wark, 

An'  wi'  pure  grief  was  like  to  greet  aye, 
When  Charlie  brought  a  letter  ben, 

He  thought  he  ken'd  the  hand  o'  Beety. 
Happy  day, 
Did  he  say,  _ 

When  my  way      HP 
Led  to  Beety, 
He  read — "  Dear  sir,  my  wedding  day 

Is  Friday  nest,  an'  you  maun  meet  me, 
To  wish  me  joy,  an"  drink  my  health, 
An'  dine  wi'  me, — your  servant,  Beety.' 
''O  ho,  ho,  hon  ! 
Now  I'm  gone, 
Love  has  pro'en 
A  weaver's  ruin.' 
Jrle  raise — sat  down — an'  raise  again— 
Ask'd  Charlie  if  the  day  was  sleety  ; 


234  SONGS. 

Then  through  his  head  he  popp'd  the  leati. 
An'  died  a  fool  for  love  o'  Beety. 
The  web  is  red, 
Beety's  wed, 
Willis  dead, 
An'  all  is  over. 


AYONT  THE  MOW  AMANG  THE  HAY 

Tune — Andrew  wV  his  cutty  Gun. 

Blythly  hae  I  screiv'd  my  pipes, 

And  blythly  jjlay^d  the  lee-lang  day. 
An'  blyther  been  wi'  bonny  Bess 

Ayont  the  mow  aniang  the  hay. 
Whan  first  I  saw  the  bonny  face 

O'  Bessie  bloorain'  in  her  teens. 
She  wyl'd  away  this  heart  o'  mine. 

An'  ca'd  it  fou  o'  corkin'  preens. 

"  At  e'en  when  a'  the  lave  gae  lie, 

An'  grannie  steeks  her  waukrife  e'e. 
Steal  out  when  I  the  winnock  tap, 

Ahint  the  Im^  I'll  meet  wi'  thee." 
She  leugh,  aiWad  me  let  her  hame, 

Her  mither  sair  wad  flyte  an'  scold  ; 
But  ere  I  quat  my  bonny  Bess 

Anither  tale  I  trow  she  tauld. 

On  Tysday  night,  fou  weel  I  wat, 
\yi'  hinny  words  I  row'd  my  tongue, 

Raught  down  my  plaid,  an'  stievely  staK 
Intill  my  neive  a  hazel  rung. 

Now  when  I  con'd  my  artless  tale 
Gaun  linkin'  owre  the  lilie  lea, 


SONGS, 

1-  ou  weel  I  trow'd  that  ilka  bush 
Some  jeering  question  speirM  at  me. 

The  bleeter  cry'd  frae  yont  the  loch, 

"  O  hoolie,  hoolie, — whare  ye  gaun  ?" 
The  craik  reply'dfrae  'mang  the  corn, 

"  Turn  out  your  taes,  my  bonny  mian.' 
An'  soon  I  faund,  wi'  shiverin'  shanks, 

My  heart  play  dunt  through  basfou  fea; 
Whan  glowrin'  owre  the  kail-yard  dyke 

To  see  gin  a'  the  coast  was  clear  ; 
\n'  there,  like  ony  nightly  thief, 

Wi'  eerie  swither  lour'd  awhile, 
Till  rallying  ilka  traitor  nerve, 

I  lightly  laup  outowr  the  stile  ; 
■Syne  gae  the  glass  twa  cannie  pats 

An'  Bessie  bade  na  lang  frae  me  ; 
The  rousty  lock  was  ullied  weel, 

An'  ilka  hinge  o'  cheepin'  free. 

O  say,  ye  haly  Minstrel  band, 

Wha  saw  the  saft  the  silken  hour. 
Though  joys  celestial  on  ye  wait, 

Say  was  your  bliss  mair  chastely  pure  ' 
Bhjthly  hue  I screic'd  my  pipes, 

An'  blythly  play'd  the  lee-lang  day, 
.!«'  happy  been  wV  bonny  Bess 

Ayont  the  mow  among  the  liay. 


THE  DRIXKIN',  O; 

A  Sang  for  the  Ladies. 

Tune — Dumbarton  Drums. 

O  WAE  to  the  wearifu'  drinkin',  O  ! 

That  foe  to  reflection  an'  thinkin',  O  ! 

10* 


.'36  SONGS. 

Our  charms  are  gi'en  in  vain  ! 
Social  conversation's  gane  ! 
For  the  rattlin'  c'  the  guns  an'  the  drinkin'  O 

O  why  will  you  ply  at  the  drinkin',  O  ? 
Which  to  weakness  will  soon  lead  you  linkin'  O 

These  eyes  that  shine  sae  bright 

Soon  will  be  a  weary  sight, 
When  ye're  a  sittin'  noddin'  and  winkin',  O. 

Forever  may  we  grieve  for  the  drinkin',  O  ! 
The  respect  that  is  due  daily  sinkin',  O  I 

Our  presence  sair  abused, 

An'  our  company  refused, 
An'  its  a'  for  the  wearifu'  drinkin'  O  I 

O  drive  us  not  awr.y  wi'  your  drinkin',  O  ! 

We  like  your  presence  mair  than  ye're  thinkin'.  < » 

We'll  gie  ye  another  sang, 

An'  ye're  no  to  think  it  lang, 
For  the  sake  o'  your  wearifu'  drinkin',  O  I 

Sweet  dehcacy,  turn  to  us  blinkin'  O  ! 

For  by  day  the  guns  and  swords  still  are  clinkin'.  ( i 

An'  at  aijht  the  flowin'  bowl 

Bothers  ilka  manly  soul. 
Then  there's  naething  but  beblin'  and  drinkin',  O  ■ 

Gentle  Peace,  ceme  an'  wean  them  frae  their  drink- 
in', O  ! 
Bring  the  little  footy  boy  wi'  your  winkin'  O '. 

Gar  him  thraw  at  ilka  man, 

An'  wound  as  deep's  he  can, 
Or  we're  ruin'dby  the  wearifu'  drinkin'  O  ! 


SONGS.  237 

GRACIE  MILLER. 
Tune — Braes  of  Balquhidckr 

LiTTLE;  queer  bit  auld  body, 

Whar  ye  gaun  sae  late  at  e'n  ? 
:Sic  a  massy  auld  body 

I  saw  never  wi'  my  een." 
•  I'm  gaun  to  court  the  bonniest  lass 

That  ever  stepp'd  in  leather  shoe"' 
'  But  little  shabby  auld  body, 

Where's  the  lass  will  look  at  you  : 

Ere  I  war  kiss'd  wi'  ane  like  you, 

Or  sic  a  man  cam  to  ray  bed, 
rd  rather  kiss  the  hawkit  cow, 

An'  in  my  bosom  tak  a  taed. 
Wha  ever  weds  wi'  sic  a  stock 

Wilt  be  a  gibe  to  a'  the  lave  : 
Little,  stupid  auld  body, 

Rather  think  upon  your  grave.'" 

••  But  I'm  sae  deep  in  love  wi'  ane, 

I'll  wed  or  die,  it  maks  na  whether  ; 
O  '.  she's  the  prettiest,  sweetest  queen, 

That  ever  brush'd  the  dew  frae  heathei 
J'he  fairest  Venus  ever  drawn 

Is  naething  but  a  bogle  till  her  ; 
She's  fresher  than  thb  morning  dawn, 

An'  hark, — her  name  is  Gracie  Miller.'" 

She  rais'd  her  hands  ;  her  een  they  reel'd  , 

Then  wi'  a  skirl  outowr  she  fell  ; 
An'  aye  she  leugh,  an'  aye  she  squeel'd, 

"  Hey  I  mercy  !  body,  that's  mysel  1' 
Then  down  he  hurkled  by  her  side. 

An'  kiss'd  her  hand;  an'  warmly  woo'd  her  . 


233  SONGS. 

An'  whiles  she  leughs,  an'  while  she  sigh'tS 
An'  lean  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

'*'  O  pity  me,  my  bonny  Gracie  ! 

My  words  are  true,  ye  needna  doubt  'em  . 
Nae  man  can  see  your  bonny  face 

An  keep  his  senses  a'  about  him."^ 
"  Troth,  honest  man,  I  ken'd  lang  syne 

Nae  ither  lass  could  equal  wi'  me  ; 
But  yet  the  brag  sae  justly  mine 

Was  tint,  till  you  hae  chanc'd  to  see  mc 

Though  ye  want  yudith,  gear,  an'  mense. 

Ye  hae  a  dash  o'  amorous  fire  ; 
Ye  hae  good  taste'  an'  sterling  sense, 

An'  ye  sal  hae  your  heart's  desire." 
O,  woman  !  woman!  after  death, 

If  that  vain  nature  still  is  given, 
.\nd  de'ils  get  leave  to  use  their  breath, 

They'll  flatter  ye  into  hellfrae  heaven 


BFRNIEBOUZLE. 

Tune — Braes  of  Tullymef 
Will  ye  gang  wi'  me  lassie, 
To  the  braes  o'  Hirniebouzle  ?* 
Baith  the  earth  an'  sea,  lassie,. 

Will  I  rob  to  fend  ye  : 
I'll  hunt  the  otter  an'  the  brock  : 
The  hart,  the  hare,  an'  heather  cock 
An'  pu'  the  limpat  oft"  the  rock, 
To  fatten  an'  to  fend  ye. 

If  ye'll  gae  wi'  me  lassie, 
To  the  braes  o'  Birniebozle, 

Till  the  day  ye  dee,  lassie. 
Ye  sail  ay  hae  plenty  : 


SONGS.  -23; 


The  peats  I'll  carry  in  a  skull : 
The  cod  an'  ling  wi'  lines  I'll  pull  ; 
An'  reave  the  eggs  o'  money  a  gull,. 
To  mak  ye  dishes  dainty. 

Sae  cheery  will  ye  be,  lassie, 
r  the  braes  o'  Birniebouzle  ; 

Donald  Gun  and  me,  lassie, 
Ever  will  attend  ye. 

Though  we  hae  nouther  milk  nor  mea! 

Nor  lamb  nor  mutton,  beef  nor  veal. 

We'll  fank  the  porpy  an'  the  seal. 
An'  that's  the  way  to  fend  ye. 

An'  ye  sal  gang  sae  braw,  lassie, 

At  the  kirk  o'  Birniebouzle  ; 
Wi'  littit  brogs  an'  a,'  lassie, 
Wow  but  ye"ll  be  vaunty  • 
An'  ye  sal  wear,  when  you  are  wed 
The  kirtle  an'  the  Highland  plaid, 
An'  sleep  upon  a  heather  bed, 
Sae  cozy  an'  sae  canty." 

•  If  ye  will  marry  me,  laddie. 
At  tlie  kirk  o'  Birniebouzle, 

Yiy  chiefest  aim  shall  be,  laddie. 

Ever  to  content  ye  : 
I'll  bait  the  line  an'  bear  the  pail, 
An'  row  the  boat  an'  spread  the  sail, 
An'  dadd  the  clotters  wi'  a  flail, 

To  mak  our  tatoes  plenty." 

•  Then  come  awa  wi'  me,  lassie, 
To  the  braes  o'  Birniebouzle  ; 

An'  since  ye  are  sae  free,  lassie, 

Ye  sail  ne'er  repent  ye  : 
For  ye  sail  hae  baith  tups  un  ewes, 
An'  gaits  an'  swine,  an'  stots  an'  cows 


•J40  SONGS. 

An'  be  the  lady  o'  my  house, 
An'  that  may  vveel  content  ye 


LIFE  IS  A  WEARY  COBBLE  O'  CARE. 

Tune — Bob  o'  Dumblane. 
Life  is  a  weary,  weary,  weary, 
Life  is  a  weary  cobble  o'  care  : 

The  poets  milseads  you, 

Wha  ca'  it  a  msadow, 
For  life  is  a  puddle  o'  perfect  despair. 
We  love  an'  we  marry,  vve  fight  an'  we  vary 
Get  children  to  pla^^ue  an'  confound  us  for  aye  ; 

Our  daughters  grow  limmers, 

Our  sons  they  grow  sinners. 
An'  scorn  ilka  word  that  a  parent  can  .=ay. 
Man  is  steerer,  steerer,  steerer, 
Man  is  steerer,  life  is  a  pool ; 

We  wrestle  an'  fustle, 

For  riches  we  bustle, 
Then  drap  in  the  grave,  an'  leave  a'  to  a  fool. 

Youth  again  could  I  see, 

Women  should  wilie  be. 
Ere  I  were  wheedled  to  sorrow  an'paiii  ; 

I  should  take  care  o'  them, 

Never  to  marry  them  ; 
Hang  me  if  buckled  in  wedlock  again. 


JACK  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 

Tune — Jackson's  Cog  in  the  Morning. 

''Now,  mother'  since  a'  our  young  lasses  ye  saw 
Yestreen  at  the  wedding,  sae  trig  an'  sae  braw. 


SOxXGS.  241 

^ay,  wasna  my  Peggy  tlie  flower  o"  them  a', 

Our  table  and  party  adorning  ? 
Her  form  is  so  fair^  and  her  features  so  fine ; 
Her  cheek  like  the  lily  anointit  \vi'  wine  ; 
The  beam  o'  her  bonny  blue  e'e  does  outshine 

The  stern  that  appears  in  the  morning."' 

"  Awa,  ye  poor  booby  !  your  skill  is  but  sma  "' 

If  ye  marry  Peggy  ye'll  ruin  us  a"  : 

She  lives  like  a  lady,  an'  dresses  as  braw  : 

But  how  will  she  rise  i'  the  morning  ? 
.She'll  lie  in  her  bed  till  eleven^  while  ye 
Alaun  rise  an'  prepare  her  her  toast  an'  her  tea 
Her  friends  will  be  angry,  an'  send  you  to  sea. 

Dear  Jocky  be  wise  an'  tak  warning." 

"  O  mother  !  sic  beauty  I  canna  forego  ! 

I've  sworn  I  will  have  her,  come   weel   or  come 

woe  ; 
\n'  that  wad  be  perjury,  black  as  a  crow, 

To  leave  her  an'  think  of  another." 
■'•  An'  if  ve  do  wed  her,  your  prospects  are  fine  ; 
In  meal-pocJ.<s  an'  rags  ye  will  instantly  shine  : 
Gae  break  your  mad  vow,  an'  the  sin  shall  be  mine. 

O  pity  yoursel'  an'  your  mother  V' 

'•  I'm  sure  my  young  Peggy  is  handsome  an"  gay 
T  spoke  to  her  father  this  very  same  da}", 
vu'  tauld  him  I  was  for  his  daugther  away." 

''  Dear  Jocky  !  what  said  he  this  morning  : 
"  He  said  he  wad  gie  me  a  horse  an"  a  cow, 
A  hundred  gude  ewes,  an'  a  pack  o"  his  woo, 
To  stock  a  bit  farm  at  the  back  o"  the  brow, 

An'  gie  Maggy  wark  i'  the  morning." 

•  Troth  Peggy  is  bonny,  and  handsome  I  trow  ; 
\n'  really  'tis  dangeroiis  breaking  a  vow. 


■.'4-2  SONGS. 

Then  tak  her  ;  my  blessing  on  Paggy  and  an''  \ 
Shall  tarry  baith  ev'ningand  morning." 

So  Jocky  an'  Peggy  in  wedlock  were  bound  ; 

The  bridal  was  merry,  the  music  did  sound  ; 

They  went  to  their  bed,  while  the  glass  it   gaed 
round, 
An'  a'  wish'd  them  joy  i'  the  morning. 


ATHOL  CUMMERS. 

Duncan  lad,  blaw  the  hummers  ! 
Piay  me  round  the  Athol  Cummers  ; 
A'  the  din  o'  a'  the  drummers 
Canna  rouse  like  Athol  Cummers, 
When  I'm  dowie,  weet,  or  weary. 
Soon  ray  heart  grows  light  an'  cheery, 
When  I  hear  the  sprightly  num'ers 
Of  my  dear,  my  Athol  Cummers. 

Duncan  lad,  <5*c 

When  the  fickle  lasses  vex  me  ; 
When  the  cares  o'  life  perplex  me  ; 
^V^len  I'm  fley'd  wi'  frightfu'  rumours, 
Then  I  cry  for  Athol  Cummers, 

Duncan  lad,  <5*r. 

•Tis  my  cure  for  a'  disasters  ; 
Kebbit  ewes,  an'  crabbit  masters  ; 
Drifty  nights,  an'  dripping  summers, 
A'  my  joy  is  Athol  Cummers. 

Duncan  lad,  t^T 

Aihol  banks  an'  braes  are  bonny,. 
Fairer  nane  in  Caledony  ; 


•SONGS. 

But  a"  her  woods,  an'  sweetest  summer; 
Canna  please  like  Athol  Cummers. 

Duncati  lad,  <$'C. 


WILLIE  WASTLE. 

Tune — Macfarlane  s  Reel 

Willie  Wastle  lo'ed  a  lass 

Was  bright  as  ony  rainbow  ; 
A  pretty  dear  I  wat  she  was, 

But  saucy  an'  disdainfu'  : 
She  courtit  was  by  mony  a  lad, 

What  teas'd  her  late  an'  early  , 
An'  a'  the  wiles  that  Willie  had 

Could  scaixely  gain  a  parley 

The  western  soa  had  drown'd  the  sun  , 
The  sternies  blinkit  clearly  ; 

The  moon  was  glentin'  o'er  the  glen, 
To  light  him  to  his  dreary. 

She  dwaltamang  the  mountains  wild, 
Nae  wood  nor  bower  to  shade  her  ; 

But  O  !  the  scene  look'd  sweet  an'  mild. 

For  luve  o"  them  that  staid  there. 

The  cock  that  craw'd  wi'  yelpin'  voice. 

Nae  claronet  sae  grand,  O  ; 
The  bonny  burnie's  purlin'  noise 

Was  sweet  as  the  piano. 
The  little  doggy  at  ihe  door, 

Into  his  arms  he  caught  it, 
An'  hugg'd  an'  sleek'd  it  o'er  and  o'er. 

For  luve  o"  them  that  aught  it. 


-44  SOiNGS. 

The  house  was  thrang,  the  night  was  lan^ 

The  auld  gadewife  bethought  her. 
To  tak  a  lair  was  naething  wrang 

Beside  her  bonny  doughter. 
.Sly  Willie  enter'd  unperceiv'd 

To  wake  his  charming  Annie, 
An'  straight  his  jealous  mind  believ'd 

The  wife  was  shepherd  Sawny. 

Though  milder  than  the  southern  breeze 

When  July's  odours  waftin,' 
Yet  now  his  passion  made  a  heeze, 

An'  a'  his  reason  left  him  ; 
Ho  gae  the  kerlin  sic  a  swinge, 

He  didna  stand  on  prattlin', 
Till  down  her  throat,  like  birstled  bean=, 

He  gart  her  teeth  gang  rattlin'. 

The  doggy  fawn'd,  but  gat  a  drub 

Frae  Willie's  hand  uncivil  ; 
The  burn  whs  grown  a  drumly  dub  ! 

The  cock  a  skirlin'  devil. 
The  place  appeared  a  wilderness, 

A  desert,  dank  an'  dreary  ; 
For  O  1  alas  !  the  bonny  lass 

Nae  mair  could  mak  it  cheery  ! 

O  love  !  thou  ray  of  life  divine  ! 

If  rosy  virtue  guide  thee. 
What  sense  of  feeling  half  sae  fine  ! 

What  blessings  too  abide  thee  ! 
But  jealousy,  thy  neighbour  sour. 

Deforms  the  finest  feature, 
An'  maks  a  gloomy  shade  to  lour 

O'er  fairest  scenes  in  nature 


SONGS  U:. 

AULD  JOHN  BORTHICK. 

Tune —  The  Toper's  delight. 

Acr.D  John  Borthick  is  gane  to  a  weddin', 

Frae  Edinburgh  owr  to  the  east  neuk  o"  Fife  ; 
His  cheeks  they  war  thin,  an'  his  colour  was  fadin' 

But  auld  John  Borthick  was  mad  for  a  wife. 
His  heart  was  as  light  as  the  lammie's  in  July. 

An'  saft  as  the  mushroom  that  grows  on  the  lee  ; 
For  bomiy  Miss  Jeany  had  squeezed  it  to  ulzie 

Wi'  ae  wily  blink  o'  her  bonny  blue  e"e. 

He  sat  in  a  neuk  in  confusion  an'  anguish  ; 

His  gravat  was  suddled,  but  that  wasna  a' ; 
His  head  wasna  held,  but  his  brow  was  turn'd  lan- 
guish'd  ; 

His  teeth  warna  out,  but  they  war  turnin'  snia'  ; 
He  saw  bonny  Jeany  afore  him  was  landit ; 

He  saw  bonny  Jeany  was  favour' d  by  a'  ; 
Bv  lairds  an'  by  nobles  respectfully  bandit  ; 

An'  wow  but  miss  Jeany  was  bonny  an'  braw  ! 

••  Alas  I"  quo'   John  Borthick,  '  they'll  spoil  tlie 
poor  lassie. 

An'  gar  her  believe  that  she  carries  the  bell ; 
ril  ne'er  hae  a  wife  sae  upliflit  an'  saucy  ; 

I  cou'dna  preserve  her  a  month  to  raysel'. 
But  yet  she's  sae  handsome;  sae  modest,,  an  rosy, 

The  man  wha  attains  her  is  blest  for  his  life ; 
My  heart  is  a'  earning  to  lie  in  her  bosy, 

•■'  Oh  I  dear  1"  quo'  John  Borthick,  '•'  gin  I  had  a 
wife  !"' 

Lang  Geordie  was  tipsy  ;  he  roarM  an'  he  rantit ; 

He  danc'd  an'  he  sang,  an'  was  brimfu'  o'  glee  ; 
Of  riches,  of  strength,  an'  of  favour  he  vauntit  : 

No  man  in  the  world  sae  miffhtv  as  he. 


246  SONGS. 

But  in  cam  his  wife  ;  he  grew  sober  an'  sulky  ; 

She  bade  him  gang  home  as  he  valued  his  life  : 
Then  cufl''d  him,  an  ca'd  him  an  ass  an'  a  monkey. 

"Ha!  faith!"    quo' John  Borthick,    "  I'll  ne'er 
hae  a  wife.'" 

The   bride    an'  bridegroom   to  their  bed  they  re- 
tir'd  ; 

Miss  Jeauy  was  there,  an'  John  Borthick  an'  a' : 
He  look'd  at  Miss  Jeany,  his  heart  was  inspir'd  ; 

Some  said  that  the  tears  from  his  haffits  did  fa, 
He  saw  the  bridegroom  tak  the  bride  in  his  bosom  ; 

He  kiss'd  her,  caress'd  her,  an'  ca'd  her  his  life  , 
John  turn'd  him  about,  for  he  coudna  compose  him, 
''  O,  Lord!"  quo'  John  Borthick,    ''  gin  I  had  a 
wife!" 

The  mornin'  appear 'd,  an'  the  cobble  was  ready  : 

John  Borthick  was  first  at  tl  e  end  o'  the  bay  ; 
But  oh  !  to  his  sorrow  he  miss'd  the  sweet  lady  ; 

A  beau  had  her  under  his  mantle  away. 
In  less  than  a  fortnight  John  Borthick  was  married 

To  ane  wha  might  weel  be  the  joy  o'  his  life  : 
But  yet,  wi'  confusion  an' jealousy  worried. 

He  curses  the  day  that  he  married  a  wife. 


BAULDY  FRASER. 

Tune — Whigs  o'  Fife. 

My  name  is  Bauldy  Fraser,  man  ; 
I'm  puir,  an'  auld,  an'  pale,  an'  wan, 
I  brak  my  shin,  an'  tint  a  ban' 
Upon  Culloden  lee,  man. 
Our  Highlan'  clans  war  bauld  an'  stout. 
.\n'  thought  to  turn  their  faes  about. 


SONGS.  '24r 

But  gai  that  day  a  desperate  rout. 
An'  owre  the  hills  did  flee,  man. 

Sic  hurly-burly  ne'er  was  seen, 
Wi'  cuffs,  an'  buffs,  an'  blindit  een, 
While  Highlan'  swords,  o'  metal  keen. 

War  gleamin'  grand  to  see,  man 
The  cannons  rowtit  in  our  face. 
An'  brak  our  banes  an'  raive  our  claes  ; 
Twas  then  we,  saw  our  ticklish  case 

Atween  the  deil  an'  sea,  man. 

Sure  Charlie  an'  the  brave  Lochyell 
Had  been  that  time  beside  their  sell. 
To  plant  us  in  the  open  fell, 

In  the  artillery's  e'e,  man  ; 
For  had  we  met  wi'  Cumberland, 
By  Athol  braes,  or  yonder  strand, 
The  blude  o'  a'  the  savage  band 

Had  dy'd  the  German  sea,  man. 

But  down  we  drappit  dadd  for  dadd  ; 
I  thought  it  sude  hae  put  me  mad, 
To  see  sae  mony  a  Highlan'  lad 

Lie  bhithrin'  on  the  brae,  man. 
I  thought  we  ance  had  won  the  fray  ; 
We  smosht  ae  wing  till  it  gae  way  ; 
But  the  other  side  had  lost  the  day. 

An'  skelpit  fast  awa,  man. 

When  Charlie  wi'  Macphersonmet, 

Like  Hay,  he  thought  him  back  to  get  ,. 

•'•'  We'll  turn,''  quo'  he,  '•'  an'  try  them  yet  ; 

We'll  conquer  or  we'll  dee,  man." 
But  Donald  jumpit  owre  the  burn. 
An'  sware  an  aitli  she  wadna  turn. 


.'48  SONGS. 

Or  sure  she  wad  hae  cause  to  mourn  = 
Then  fast  away  did  flee,  man. 

O  I  had  you  seen  that  hunt  o'  death  ! 
We  ran  until  we  tint  our  breath. 
Aye  looking  back  for  fear  o'  skaith 
Wi'  hopeless  shinin"  e'e  man. 
But  Britain  ever  may  deplore 
That  day  upon  Drumossie  moor, 
AVhar  thousands  ta'en  war  drenclrd  in  gori 
Or  hang'd  outowr  a  tree,  man. 

O,  Cumberland  !  what  mean'd  ye  then 

To  ravage  ilka  Highlan'  glen  ? 

Our  crime  was  truth  an'  love  to  ane  ; 

We  liad  nae  spite  at  thee,  man. 
An'  you  or  yours  may  yet  be  glad 
To  trust  the  honest  Highlan'  lad  ; 
The  bonnet  blue  an'  belted  plaid 

Will  stand  the  last  o'  three,  man. 


SCOTIA'S  GLENS. 

Tune — Lord  Ballandine s  Delight.    New  a<?i 

Mo>'G  Scotia's  glens  an'  mountains  blue. 
Where  Gallia's  lilies  never  grew, 
Where  Roman  eagles  never  flew. 

Nor  Danish  lions  rallied  ; 
Where  skulks  the  roe  in  anxious  fear, 
Where  roves  the  stately,  nimble  deer, 
There  live  the  lads  to  freedom  dear. 
By  foreign  yoke  ne'er  galled. 

There  woods  grow  wild  on  every  hill ; 
There  freemen  wander  at  their  will ; 


SONGS. 

Sure  Scotland  will  be  Scotland  stiil 
While  hearts  so  brave  defend  her. 
"  Fear  not,  our  Sov'reign  liege,"  they  cry 
•  We've  flourish'd  fair  beneath  thine  eye  ; 
For  thee  we'll  fight,  for  thee  we'll  die. 
Nor  ought  but  life  surrender. 

Since  thou  hast  watch'd  our  every  need. 
And  taught  our  navies  wide  to  spread. 
The  smallest  hair  from  thy  gray  head 

No  foreign  foe  shall  sever. 
Thy  honour'd  age  in  peace  to  save 
The  sternest  host  we'll  dauntless  brave. 
Or  stem  the  fiercest  Indian  wave, 

Nor  heart  nor  hand  shall  waver. 

Though  nations  join  yon  tyrant's  arm, 
While  Scotia's  noble  blood  runs  warm, 
Our  good  old  man  we'll  guard  from  harm. 

Or  fall  in  heaps  around  him. 
Although  the  Irish  harp  were  won, 
And  England's  roses  all  o'errun, 
"  Along  Scotia's  glen  with  sword  and  gun. 

We'll  form  a  bulwark  round  him." 


THE  JUBILEE. 

Air — Miss  CarmichaeVs  Minuet. 

Who  will  not  join  the  lay. 

And  hail  the  auspicious  day 

That  first  gave  great  George  the  .sway 

Over  our  Island  ? 
Fifty  long  years  are  gone 
Since  he  first  fiU'd  the  throne ; 
And  high  honours  has  he  won 

On  sea  and  bv  land. 


!oO  SONGS. 

Think  on  his  heart  of  steel  ; 

Think  on  his  life  so  leal ; 

Think  how  he's  watch'd  our  weal, 

Till  seiz'd  with  blindness  ! 
In  mercy  first  sent  to  us  ; 
In  love  so  long  lent  to  us  ; 
(hateful,,  let's  vent  our  vows 

For  Heaven's  kindness. 

No  foeman  dare  steer  to  us, 
Nor  tyrants  come  near  to  us  ; 

Of  all  that's  dear  to  us 

He's  the  defender. 
Raise  the  song  !  raise  it  loud  I 
Of  our  old  king  we're  proud  ! 
George  the  just !  George  the  good  ! 

Still  reigns  m  splendour  ! 


THE  AULD  HIGHLANDMAN. 

Tu  ne — Killkc  rankle. 
Hersel  pe  aughty  eirs  an'  twa 

Te  twanty-tird  o'  May^  man  ; 
She  twall  amang  te  Heelan  hills 

Apoon  te  reefer  Spey,.  man. 
Tat  eir  tev  faucht  te  Shirramoor.. 

She  first  peheld  te  licht,.  man  ; 
Tey  shot  my  fater  in  tat  stour,— 

A  plaguit,  vexan  spite,  man, 

I've  feucht  in  Scotlan'  here  at  hamp. 
In  France  an'  Shermanie,  man  ; 

An'  cot  tree  tespurt  pluddy  oons 
Pevon  te'  Lantic  sea.,  man. 


SONGS. 

Put  wae  licht  on  te  nasty  gun, 
Tat  ever  she  pe  porn,  man  ; 

File  coot  kleymore  te  trisile  guard 
Her  leaves  pe  nefer  torn,  man, 

Ae  tay  I  shot,  an'  shot,  an'  shot, 

Fan  e'er  it  kam  my  turn,  man  ; 
Put  a'  te  fors  tat  I  cood  gie. 

My  powter  wadna  purn,  man. 
A  filthy  loun  kam  \vi'  his  gun, 

Resolvt  to  too  me  harm,  man  ; 
An'  wi'  te  dirk  upon  her  nose 

Ke  me  a  pluddy  arm,  man. 

I  flang  ray  gun  wi'  a'  my  might, 

An'  fellt  his  neipter  teet,  man  ; 
Tan  trew  my  sord,  an'  at  a  straik 

Hew't  afftehaf  o's  heet,  man. 
Pe  vain  to  tell  o'  a'  my  tricks  ; 

My  oons  pe  nae  tisgrace,  man  ; 
Ekseppin  ane  akross  my  hips, 

Ter  a'  before  my  face,  man. 

Frae  Roman,  Saxon,  Pick,  an'  Dane 

We  hae  cot  muckle  skaith,  man  ; 
Yet  still  te  Scot  has  kept  his  ain, 

In  spite  o'  their  teeth,  man. 
Ten  rouse  my  lads,  an'  fear  nae  fae  ; 

For  if  ye're  keen  and  true,  man, 
Although  le  French  pe  sax  times  mae 

She'll  never  konker  you,  man, 

I'm  auld  an'  stiff,  an',  owr  my  staff. 
Can  gang  but  unco  slaw,  man  ; 

But  Kood  te  Frenchmen  be  sae  taft 
As  venter  here  awa,  man^ 

Vol,  II.— 11 


■o2  so:sGg. 

"My  sord;  tat  now  is  auld  an'  phuii.. 

I'll  sharp  upon  a  stane,  man, 
\n"  hiiple  toon  unto  te  kost. 

An'  faucht  for  Shorge  an'  fame,  mau 


BUCCLEUCH'S  BIRTH-DAY 

Tune — Macfarlanc's  Reel. 

>J  FY  let's  a'  be  merry,  boyS; 

O  U-  let's  a'  be  merry  ; 
This  is  a  day  we  should  rejoice  , 

Then  fy  let's  a'  be  merry. 
Our  auld  guderaan  is  hale  an'  free, 
An'  that  should  surely  cheer  us  ; 
\u'  the  flowers  o'  a'  the  south  countrit     ■ 
Are  sweetly  smiling  near  us. 

Our  day's  nae  done  though  it  be  dark  . 

Put  round  the  Port  an'  Sherry  ; 
An'  ask  at  James  o'  the  Tover  o"  Sari;. 
If  we  should  nae  a'  be  merry. 

Blest  be  the  day  the  Scot  did  gain 

His  name,  and  a'  surrounding, 
*  When  in  the  cleugh  the  buck  was  ta'en. 

While  hound  and  horn  was  sounding. 
But  ten  times  blessed  be  this  day 
That  brought  us  noble  Harry  ; 
A  nation's  pride,  a  country's  stay, 
A  friend  that  disna  vary. 
Then  let's  be  merry  ane  an'  a,' 

An'  drink  the  Port  an'  Sherry  ; 
An'  spier  at  George  o'  the  Carterha  , 
If  we  should  nae  a'  be  merrv, 


SONGS.  55-; 

Then  let  us  drink  to  brave  Buccleuch, 

An'  our  auld  honest  Geordie  ; 
For,  seek  the  country  through  an'  through. 

We'll  light  on  few  sae  worthy  : 
The  one  protects  our  native  land, 

And  on  the  sea  keeps  order  ; 
The  other  guides  the  farmer's  hand; 

And  rules  the  Scottish  Border. 
Then  merry,  merry,  let  us  be, 

An'  drink  the  Port  an'  Sherry ; 
rU  refer  to  Wat  i'  the  FrostyUe/' 

If  we  should  nae  a'  be  merry. 


HIGHLAND  HARRY  BACK  AGAIN. 

This  and  the  two  following  Songs  were  composed 
for,  and  sung  at,  the  celebration  of  the  Earl  of 
Dalkeith's  birth-day,  at  Selkirk,  on  the  24t]i 
May. 

Ye  forest  flowers  so  fresh  and  gay, 
Let  all  your  hearts  be  light  and  fain; 

For  once  this  blest  auspicious  day, 
Brought  us  a  Harry  back  again. 

The  wild-bird's  hush'd  on  Ettrick  braeS; 
And  northward  turns  the  nightly  wain  ; 


"*  The  above  Song  was  composed  and  sung  at- 
liie  celebration  of  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch's  birth- 
day, at  Langholm.  The  three  gentlemen  referred 
to  were  Messrs.  James  Church,  George  Park,  and 
Walter  Borthwick,  Managers  of  the  Ball  for  that 
year,  1309. 


^54  SONGS. 

Let's  close  with  glee  this  wale  of  days, 

To  us  so  welcome  back  again. 
Ma\  blessings  wait  that  noble  Scot, 

Who  love's  to  hear  the  shepherd's  strain 
And  long  in  peace  may  be  his  lot 

To  see  this  day  come  back  again. 
His  heart  so  kind,  his  Moi.ie  mind, 

His  loyal  course  without  a  stain,. 
And  choice's  fair,  all,  all  declare* 

He'll  just  be  Harry  back  again. 


HAP  AN'  ROWE  THE  FEETIE  O'T 

Tune — Grant^s  Rant, 

Gae  hap  an^  rotce  the  feetie  oH  ; 
Gae  hap  an'  roue  the  feetie  o\t ; 
We'll  never  trow  we  hae  a  bairn 
Uuless  we  hear  the  greetie  oH. 

Auld  fashion'd  bodies  whine  an'  tell. 

In  prophecies  precarious, 
That  our  young  Charley  never  will 

Be  sic  a  man  as  Harry  was. 
Auld  Harry  was  an  honest  man, 

An'  nouther  flush  nor  snappy,  O  . 
An'  a'  the  gear  that  e'er  he  wan 

Was  spent  in  makin'  happy,  O. 

Goje  Imp  an'  rowe,  d^v. 

There  grew  a  tree  at  our  house-end, 

We  hack'd  it  down  for  fire,  O  ; 
An'  frae  the  root  there  did  ascend 

A  straughter  ane  an'  higher,  O  » 
Then  what's  to  hinder  our  young  blade 

W^hen  sic  a  sample's  shown  him,  0< 


SONGS. 

'to  trace  the  steps  his  father  gaed, 
An'  e'en  to  gang  beyon'  them,  O  ? 

Gae  hap  arv  rowe,  SfC. 

This  day  we'll  chime  in  canty  rhyme 

What  spirit  we  wad  hae  him,  O  , 
An'  if  he  run  as  he's  begun, 

Our  blessin'  aye  wp  11  gie  him,  O! 
We  wish  him  true  unto  his  king, 

An'  for  his  country  ready,  O  ; 
A  steady  friend,  a  master  kind. 

An'  nouther  blate  nor  e^reedy,  O. 

Gae  hap  o.n'  rowe,  &'C 

While  he  shall  grace  the  noble  name, 

We'll  drink  his  health  in  Sherry.  O  ; 
\n'  aye  this  day  we'll  dance  aW  play 

In  reels  an' jigs  sae  merry,  O  ; 
But  if  it's  ken'd  his  actions  tend 

To  any  ill  behavin',  O. 
This  bonny  twenty-fourth  o'  May 

In  crape  we's  a'  be  wavin',  O. 

Gae  hap  an'  rewe  tlie  feetie  o't  ; 
Gae  hajj  an'rovst  the  feetie  o't  ; 
We'/Z  aye  believe  tis  bvt  /  bairn 
If  ance  ice  hear  the  greetie  o't ; 


BORN,  LADDIE, 

Tune — Somebody . 

Let  wine  gae  round,  an'  music  play, 
This  is  the  twenty-fourth  o'  May! 
An'  on  this  bonny  bl)  thsome  day 
Our  young  guderaan  was  born,  laddie^ 


25fi  SONGS. 

The  Esk  shall  dance  an'  Teviot  sing, 
The  Yarrow's  bonny  banks  shall  ring, 
An  Ettrick's  muse  shall  streek  her  wing 
This  day  that  he  was  born,  laddie. 

Bom,  laddie  !  bom,  laddie .' 
Ilka  e'n  an'  mom,  laddie, 
We  loill  bless  the  happy  day 
"Wlien  Charlie  he  was  born,  laddie. 

May  health  an'  happiness  attend 
The  chief,  for  truth  an  honour  ken'd  I 
An  may  he  never  want  a  friend, 

To  cheer  him  when  forlorn,  laddie  ! 
To  him  an'  his  we're  a'  in  debt, 
An'  lang  hae  been,  an'  will  be  yet  ; 
But  may  he  thrive  till  we  forget 

The  day  when  he  was  born,  laddie  \ 
Born,  laddie,  ^k 

But  should  he  stern  misfortune  find, 
Then  may  he  calmly  call  to  mind, 
Tis  but  the  lot  of  all  mankind 

That  ever  yet  were  born,  laddie. 

If  pride  shall  e'er  his  bosom  swell, 

And  kindness  frae  his  neart  repel. 

Twill  mind  him  he  maun  die  himsel', 

As  sure  as  he  was  born,  laddie. 

Bom,  laddie,  ^c 


DONALD  MACDONALD. 

Tune —  Who'd  an'  married  an'  a 

My  name  is  Donald  Mardonald, 
I  live  in  the  Highlands  sae  grand ; 


SONGS. 

I've  follow'd  our  banner,  an'  will  do, 

Wharever  my  Maker  has  land. 
When  rankit,  amang  the  blue  bonnets.. 

Nae  danger  can  fear  rae  awa  , 
J  ken  that  my  brethren  around  me 
Are  either  to  conquer  or  fa'. 
Brogs  an'  brochen  an'  a', 
Brochen  an'  brogs  an'  a', 
An'  isnathe  laddie  well  aff 
Whahasbr  ;2:s  an'  brochen  an'  a". 

Short  syne  we  war  wonderfu'  canty 

Our  friends  an'  our  country  to  see  ; 
But  since  the  proud  Consul's  grown  vaunty, 

We'll  meet  .nim  by  land  or  by  sea. 
Wherever  a  clan  is  disloyal. 

Wherever  our  king  ha?  a  foe, 
He'll  quickly  see  Donald  Macdonald 
Wi'  his  Highlanders  all  in  a  row. 
Guns  an'  pistols  an'  a', 
Pistols  an'  guns  an'  a' ; 
He'll  quickly  see  Donald  Macdonald 
Wi'  guns  an'  pi^-tols  an'  a'. 

What  thougli  we  befriendit  young  Charlie  ? 

To  tell  it  I  dinna  think  shame  ; 
Poor  lad  !  he  came  to  us  but  barely. 

An'  reckoned  our  mountains  his  hame  . 
'Tis  true  that  our  reason  forbade  us, 

But  tenderness  carried  the  day  ; 
Had  Geordie  come  friendless  amang  uf. 

Wi'  him  WR  had  a'  gane  away. 
Sword  an'  buckler  an'  a', 
Buckler  an'  sword  an'  a' . 


js  songs. 

For  George  we'll  encounter  the  derL 
Wi'  sword  an'  buckler  an"  a'. 

\n'  O  I  would  eagerly  press  him 
The  keys  o'  the  East  to  retain  , 
for  should  he  gie  up  the  possession^ 

We'll  soon  hae  to  force  them  asain  ; 
rhan  yield  up  an  inch  wi'  dishonour,. 

Though  it  war  my  finisbin'  blow^ 
He  aye  may  depend  on   Macdonald, 
Wi's  Highlandmen  all  in  a  row. 
Knees  an'  elbows  an'  a', 
Elbows  an'  knees  an'  a'  ; 
Depend  upon  Donald  Macdonald, 
His  knees  an'  elbows  an'  a'. 

it*  Bonaparte  land  at  Fort-William, 

Auld  Europe  nae  langer  sball  grane  ; 
I  laugh;  when  I  think  how  we'll  gall  hin: 

Wi'  bullet,  wi'  steel,  an   wi'  stane  : 
Wi    rocks  o'  the  Nevis  an   Gairy 

We'll  rattle  him  afi'  frae  the  shore  ; 
Or  lull  him  asleep  in  a  eairny, 
^  An  sing  him  Locha.ber  no  more  ! 
Stanes  an   bullets  an  a. 
Bullets  an   stanes  an    a  ; 
We'll  finish  the  Corsican  callan 
AVi'  stanes  an  wi'  bullets  an'  a". 

The  Gordon  is  gude  in  a  hurry, 

An  Campbell  is  sieel  to  ihe  bane  ; 
An   Grant,  an  Mackenzie,  an    Murray. 

An  Cameron  will  hurkle  to  nane  ; 
The  Stuart  is  sturdy  an  wannle, 

An,   sae  is  Macleod  an'  Mackay  ; 
An'  I,  their  gudebrither  Macdonald^ 

Sail  never  be  last  i'  the  fray. 


SONGS. 

Brogs  an   brochen  an'  a'; 
Brochen  an'  brogs  an' a', 
An'  up  wi'  the  bonny  blue  bonnet. 
The  Kilt  an'  the  feather  an'  a'. 


BY  A  BUSH. 

Tune — Maid  that  tends  the  Goats 

By  a  bush  on  yonder  brae, 
Where  the  airy  Benger  rises, 

Sandy  tun'd  his  artless  lay  ; 

Thus  he  sung  the  lee-lang  day  : 

Thou  shalt  ever  be  my  theme, 
Yarrow,  windiag  down  the  hollow, 

With  thy  bonny  sister  stream, 
Sweeping  through  the  broom  so  yellow 
On  these  banks  thy  waters  lave, 
Oft  the  warrior  found  a  grave. 

Oft  on  thee  the  silent  wain 

Saw  the  Douglas'  banners  streaming ; 
Oft  on  thee  the  hunter  train 
Sought  the  shelter'd  deer  in  vain; 
Oft  in  thy  green  dells  and  bowers, 

Swains  have  seen  the  faries  riding, 
Oft  the  snell  and  sleety  showers 

Found  in  thee  tlie  warrior  hiding. 
Many  a  wild  and  bloody  scene 
On  thy  bonny  banks  have  been 
Now,  the  days  of  discord  gane, 

Henry's  kindness  keeps  us  cheery  ; 
While  his  heart  shall  warm  remain, 
Dule  will  beg  a  hauld  in  vain. 
Bloodless  now  in  many  hues 


SONGS. 

Flowrets  bloom,  our  hills  adorniij^, 

There  mv  Jenny  milks  her  ewes, 

Fresh  an"  ruHdy  as  the  morning  : 

Mary  Scott  could  ne'er  outvie 

Jenny's  hue  an'  glancing  eye. 

Wind,  my  Yarrow,  down  the  how? 

Forming  bows  o'  dazzling  siller  : 
Meet  thy  titty  yont  th^  knowe  : 
Wi'  my  lovr*  Flljoin  like  you. 
Flow,  my  Ettrick.  it  was  thee 

Into  liie  wha  first  did  drap  rae  : 
Thee  I've  sim^.  an'  when  I  dee 
Thou  wilt  lend  a  sod  to  hap  me. 

J*assing  swains  shall  say.  and  weep< 
Here  our  Shepherd  lies  asleep. 


PRLNXE  OWEN  AND  THE   SEER. 

To  an  old  Welsh  air. 

O  SAY,  mighty  owen,  why  beams  thy  bright  eye  ? 

And  why  shakes  thy  plume,  when  the  winds  arc 
so  still  ? 
What  means  the  loud  blast  of  the  bugle  so  nigh  ? 

And  the  wild  warlike  music  I  hear  on  the  hill  V 
••'  We  are  free,  thou  old  Seer  ;  the  Britons  are  free'' 

Our  foes  have  all  fallen,  or  shrunk  from  our  view 
As  free  as  the  bird  of  the  mountain  are  we, 
The  roe  oft'ie  forest,  or  fish  of  the  sea. 

My  country  I  my  brethren  !  my  joy  is  for  you  ; 

My   country  !  my  brethren !  my   country  1    my 
brethren; 

My  country  !  my  brethren!  my  joy  is  for  you." 


SONGS.  ^61 

•'Brave  oweii !  my  old  heart  is  fired  by  thine  I 
My  dim  eyes  they  glisten  like  tears  of  the  morn. 

Thy  valour  us  guarded  :  thy  wisdom  has  warded 
The  danger  that  threatened  to  lay  us  forlorn. 

And  when  you  and  I  have  ^unk  into  our  graves  ; 
When  ages  o'er  ages,  Timti's  standard  shall  rear  ; 

When  the  bards  have  forgot  o'er  our  ashes  to  weep  . 

When  they  can  scarcely  point  out  the  place  where 
we  sleep  : 

That  freedom  shall   flourish    we've  purchased  so 
dear  ; 

That  freedom  shall  flourish  »fcc. 

The  arm  that  created  our  shores  and  our  glens, 
Design'd  they  unconqu>'r'"d  should  ever  remain  , 

That  Power,  who  inspired  the  hearts  of  our  clans 
Design'd  them,  inviolat'  .  their  rights  to  maintain. 

Our  castle,  the  mountain  ,  our  bulwark,  the  wave  ; 
True  courage  a.nd  feafousy ,  buckler  and  shield  ; 

We'll  laugh  at  the  force  of  the  world  combin'd 

And  oppression  shall  fly  like  the  cloud  in  the  wind 
But  the  isles  and  the  ocean  to  Britain  must  yield  . 
The  isles  and  the  ocean  ;  the  isles  and  the  ocean 
The  isles  and  the  ocean  to  Britons  must  yield." 


MY  NATIVE  ISLE. 
Tune^ — Sir  Alex.  Macdonald  LocharVs  Sirathspctj 

And  must  I  leave  my  native  Isle  ; 
Fair  friendship's  eye,  afiection's  smile, 
The  mountain's  sport,  the  angler's  wile, 

The  birch  and  weping  willow,  O  ! 
The  Highland  glen,  the  healthy  gale, 
The  gloaming  glee,  the  evening  tale  ; 


02  SONGS. 

And  must  I  leave  my  native  vale, 
And  brave  the  boisterous  billow,  O '. 

How  sweet  to  climb  the  mountain  high; 
While  dawning  gilds  the  evening  sky  ; 
Or  in  the  shade  at  noon  to  lie 

Upon  the  fell  so  airy,  O. 
And  when  the  sun  is  sinking  low, 
Through  woodland  walks  to  wander  slow 
Or  kindly  in  my  plaid  to  rowe 

My  gentle  rosy  Mary,  O. 

My  native  Isle  !  I  love  thee  well  ; 
I  love  thee  more  than  I  can  tell ; 
Accept  my  last,  my  sad  farewell  ; 

In  thee  I  may  not  tarry,  O. 
What  makes  my  bosom  heave  so  high  ? 
What  makes  the  dew-drop  gild  mine  eye  ? 
Alas  I  that  dew  would  quickly  dry. 

If 'twere  not  for  my  Mary,  O ! 
O  youth  I  thou  season  light  and  gay. 
How  soon  thy  pleasures  melt  away  '. 
Like  dew  dispell'd  by  dawning  day. 

Or  waking  wild  vagary,  O. 
The  thrush  shall  quit  the  woodland  dale. 
The  lav'rock  cease  the  dawn  to  hail, 
Ere  I  forget  my  native  vale, 

Or  my  sweet  lovely  Mary,  O  ! 


HONEST  DUCAN. 

Now  wha  is  yon  comes  o'er  theknoW; 

Sae  stalwart  an'  sae  brawny  ? 
His  h urchin  beard,  an'  towzy  pow, 

Bespeak  some  Highland  Sawny. 
We'll  hurt  his  spirit  if  we  can, 


SONGS.  263 

Wi'  taunt  or  jibe  uncivil ; 
Before  I  saw  a  Highland  man, 
I'd  rather  see  the  devil. 

"  Now  wha  are  ye  wi'  tartan  trews  ? 

Or  whare  Lae  ye  been  reaving  1 
Nae  doubt,  to  deed  your  naked  houghs 

In  England  ye've  been  thieving." 
•'  She  no  pe  heed  yoU;  sbentleraen, 

Te  whiskey  mak  you  trunken  ; 
But  when  I'm  in  the  Athol  glen, 

They  ca'  me  'onest  Duncan." 

■■'•  An  honest  man  in  Athol  glen  ! 

We  fear  there's  ne'er  anither. 
Nae  wonder  ye're  sac  lank  an'  lean 

Whare  a'  are  knaves  thegither." 
'•'  Hu,  sha,  Cot  tamn,  say  tat  akain, 

Of  her  you  might  be  speakin' ; 
But  try  misca'  my  countrymen, 

I'll  smash  you  like  a  breaken." 

From  words,  the  blows  began  to  pass  ; 

Stout  Duncan  sair  laid  on  'em  ; 
At  length  he  tumbled  on  the  grass, 

Wi'  a'  his  faes  aboon  him. 
But  soon  he  rais'd  his  dusty  brow, 

An'  bellow'd  aiths  right  awfu' ; 
Then  whippit  out  a  lang  sken-dhu, 

An'  threaten'd  things  unlawfu.' 

Then  he  ran  here,  an'  he  ran  there. 

Tke  Higland  dirk  sae  fley'd  'em  , 
But  Duncan  chas'd  wi'  hurdles  bare, 

An'  ane  by  ane  repaid  'em. 
His  Highland  dirk,  an'  heavy  licks, 

.Sof  n  taught  them  wha  they  strove  wi 


:-04  SONGS. 

An'  he  brought  part  o'  a'  their  breeks 
To  Scotland  for  atrophy. 

''  Now,  you  at  nakit  doups  may  laugh ^ 
An'  yell  get  some  to  join  ye  ; 

But  troth  you  no  maun  cang  to  scaff 
At  tough  old  Caledony. 

Pe  mony  lad  in  Athol  glen 
Will  join  you  like  a  brither  ; 

But  should  you  laugli  at  Hishlandmen, 
She  a'  tak  low  thegither." 


HIGHLAND  LADDTE. 

•'  Were  ye  at  Drumraossie  moor, 
Bonny  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ? 
•Saw  ye  the  Duke  the  clans  o'erpower. 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ?" 
'  Yes,  I  have  seen  that  fatal  fray, 
Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ; 
\nd  my  heart  bleeds  from  day  to  day. 
Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 

Many  a  lord  of  high  degree. 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 
Will  never  more  their  mountains  see_ 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ; 
IMany  a  chief  of  birth  and  fame; 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie , 
\re  hunted  down  like  savage  game, 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 

What  could  the  remnant  do  but  yield. 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ? 
\  crenerons  chief  twice  gains  the  field, 


SONGS. 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 
Posterity  will  ne'er  us  blame, 

Boimy  laddie.  Highland  laddie. 
But  brand  with  blood  the  Brunswick  name,. 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 

O  may  it  prove  for  Scotland's  good  ! 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 
But  why  so  drench  our  ^lens  with  blood  ? 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 
Duke  William  nam'd,  or  yonder  moor, 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 
Will  lire  our  blood  for  evermore, 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie.'^ 


THE  EMIGRANT. 
Air — Lochabar  no  more.^ 
May  morning  had  shed  her  red  streamers  on  higl- 
O'er  Canada,  frowning  all  pale  on  the  sky  ; 
Still  dazzling  and  white  was  the  rube  that  she  wore. 
Except  where  the  mountain  wave  dash'd  oa  the 

shore. 
Far  heav'd  the  young  sun  like  a  lamp  on  the  wave. 
And  loud  screara'd  the  gull  o'er  his  foam-beateu 

cave, 
When  an  old  lyart  swain  on  a  headland  stood  high . 
With  the  staff  in  his  hand,  and  the  tear  in  his  eye. 

His  old  tartan  plaid,  and  his  bonnet  so  blue, 
Declar'd  from  what  country  his  lineage  he  drew  , 
His  visage  so  wan,  and  his  accents  so  low, 
Announc'd  the  companion  of  sorrow  and  woe, 
■  Ah  welcome,  thou  sun,  to  thy  canopy  grand, 
:\ndtome!  for  thou  com'st  from  my  dear  native, 
land ! 


G  SONGS. 

Again  dost  thou  leave  that  sweet  isle  of  the  sea, 
To  beam  on  these  winter-bound  vallies  and  me! 

How  sweet  in  my  own  native  v^i'  'y  to  roam  ! 
Each  face  was  a  friend'  ,  and  eiv^h  house  was  £ 

home  ; 
To  drag  our  live  thousau   -  from  river  or  bay  ; 
Or  chase  the  dun  deer  o'er  liie  mountain  so  grey 
Heie  daily  I  wander  to  sigh  on  the  steep  ; 
My  old  bosom  friend  was  laid  low  in  yon  deep  ; 
My  family  and  friends  to  extremity  driven, 
Contending  for  life  both  with  earth  and  with  heaveu 

My  country,  they  said, — but  they  told  me  a  lie, — 
Her  vallies  were  barren,  inclement  her  sky  ; 
Even  now  in  the  glens,  'mong  her  mountains  so  blur 
The  primrose  and  daisy  are  blooming  in  dew. 
How  could  she  expel  from  those  mountains  of  heath 
The  clans  who  maintain'd  them  in  danger  and  deatli'. 
Who  ever  were  ready  the  broad-sword  to  draw 
In  defence  of  her  honour,  her  freedom  and  law. 
We  stood  by  our  Stuart,  till  one  fatal  blow 
Loos'd  Ruin  triumphant,  and  valour  laid  low. 
Our  chief;  whom  we  trusted,  and  liv'd  but  to  pleaPt 
Then  turn'd\is  adrift  to  the  storms  and  the  seas. 
O  gratitude  I  where  didst  thou  linger  the  while  ? 
What  region  afar  is  illum'd  with  thy  smile  ? 
That  orb  of  the  sky  for  a  home  will  I  crave, 
When  yon  sun  rises  red  on  the  Emigrant's  gravr 

THE  END. 


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